


White Oaks

by funkytoes



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:59:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5948187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkytoes/pseuds/funkytoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The turn of the century, Astrid moves into an old estate dating back to the Revolutionary War. At first she's uninterested in the rumors the estate is haunted by the family who built it, but when she starts experiencing things, whispers in the shadows, glimpses in mirrors, she starts to question the invalidity of these claims. [AU, ghosts and Hiccstrid]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for FFnet... but I have decided to start using this account, so I will be posting it here as well.
> 
> Please enjoy!

_A hundred years they’ve waited. Waiting for someone to come. To discover their secrets. To atone for their sins. They’ve had no luck with the others—no one stays long enough._

_Until she comes. They have hope for her. She could be their salvation. The sacrificial lamb._

_They didn’t realize underneath the lamb skin was a lioness._

* * *

 

 “I do wish we could have traveled by car,” Astrid said as she watched the scenery pass by arguably slowly through the window.

“It never would have made the trip,” her uncle said, head hidden behind the newspaper. The front page of the Boston Globe was facing her, and on it was a picture of a large steam ship, with the headline, ‘Shipping Tycoon Dives Headfirst into New Deal.” She scowled. The article only briefly mentioned the reason for his vigor, and doesn’t mention her by name, but there wasn’t a soul in Boston who didn’t know her role in the matter. “And besides, what need will we have for a car in the country?” her uncle continued, turning a page.

“It would be less bumpy,” her aunt mumbled, head on Astrid’s shoulder.

“No it wouldn’t,” Astrid replied, looking out the window. “What condition is the estate in?”

“Very nice—well preserved. Not much has changed since it was built,” her uncle turned another page, “We’re lucky that most of the original décor and furniture were part of the price.”

“It will be terribly outdated,” Astrid said.

“Yes, well, it’s _furnished._ That’s what matters,” was her uncle’s disinterested reply. Suddenly his face appeared. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“About what?” Astrid asked, turning her head to stare him right in the eyes.

“About _Matthew,”_ her uncle said with emphasis.

“Why would I have second thoughts?” she asked, raising her eyebrows challengingly.

 _“Well,”_ her uncle paused, searching for the right words.

“He was such a sweet fellow,” her aunt mumbled. “I liked him ever so much.”

“Yes,” Astrid said, rolling her eyes. “He was everything a woman could ask for. Handsome. Charismatic. _Wealthy._ ”

“And with this new deal he’s going to be even wealthier,” her uncle added. “Love is a fickle thing, Astrid. I’m sure you could have grown to feel something for the man—”

“If _love_ was the only problem, I would have _married_ Matthew,” Astrid said. “The problem was that I _loathed_ the man. I just didn’t realize the extent of it until a few days before the wedding.”

Her uncle shook his head in disagreement. He, among other members of her family, strongly disapproved on her calling off the wedding. The engagement wasn’t officially off—not in the eyes of her hopeful family, and not in the eyes of her would have been husband. But to _her_ , it was a done deal. She would be happy to never see Matthew Cartan again. The reality was far more dismal, but one could hope.

“Did any staff come with the estate?” she asked her uncle.

“There’s a groundskeeper I believe,” her uncle said. “Showed me around the estate. Big, burly man. Has _tattoos,”_ her uncle said this word with disdain. “Not sure if I’ll keep him on. But he’s taken good care of the place, so perhaps he’s worth it.”

“Fascinating,” Astrid said. She opened her book, but the tremors and leaps of the carriage made it impossible to read. She reached down and gave Stormfly a quick scratch behind the ear, and the dog wagged her thin tail appreciatively. Stormfly did _not_ enjoy riding in carriages. “Will we be arriving soon?” she asked casually, “Because otherwise I’d like to stretch my legs.”

“You mean you want to stretch that skinny dog of yours legs,” her uncle replied. He knocked on the wall behind him, and a part came away and one of the coach men’s face appeared. “How long till we arrive?” her uncle asked.

“Not long now, sir,” the man replied, “I’d say half an hour.”

Her uncle took out his pocket watch, and told Astrid, “By half past four, I’d say.”

“I suppose I can last that long,” Astrid said, “And you can too, can’t you girl?”

The whippet whined slightly, wagging her tail with slow thumps.

Astrid was just thankful that their belongings, servants and supplies had gone on ahead of them. The thought of arriving to an unprepared house with nothing heated, no beds prepared, her clothes uncared for, and no food prepared made her feel queasy. But, thankfully, that will not be the case. And yet, her uncle had decided, should they arrive in time, that they would dine with the Roarksfields, in the next estate over.

Astrid leaned her head against the wall of the carriage. She wanted to get out and stretch her legs. Throw a ball for Stormfly. She wanted to get to the estate so that she could explore. See why her uncle and aunt were so excited about some old house built during the Revolutionary War, and mostly unchanged in the time since.

For her, it was just a means to an end. Wait out the drama until people are willing to forget that she left a promising man at the altar. It would take months, perhaps even years, and worst case scenario she is sent overseas, but for now, she’ll have to deal with living in the country.

Worse things have happened.

* * *

 

Stormfly was the first out of the carriage. As soon as Astrid opened the door, the dog leapt out and raced across the lawn, gleefully stretching her legs and barking.

“I do wish you’d train her not to be so loud,” her uncle said as he stepped out of the carriage, helping his wife out as he did. “She’s disturbing Marnie.”

“So this is it?” Astrid took a few steps and stopped, gazing up at the large white house. There were pillars like ancient Greek memories, and many windows. It was at least three floors high, not including the attic. The driveway went around back, where she assumed was the carriage house and stables, and other buildings. Servants were lining up. Two maids, a manservant, a cook, a butler, and the housekeeper. The stable master, his nephew, and the kitchen maids were most likely in their place of work.

“I think I’d like to stay here tonight,” Aunt Marnie said quietly as her husband led her up the steps onto the porch towards the door. Adelwood the butler and Mrs. Hobbs the housekeeper followed them inside, giving updates and information about the house.

Astrid whistled loudly for Stormfly, but the dog made no return. “Silly girl,” Astrid muttered, walking along the house towards the large expansive yard. It was immaculately groomed, bright green and trimmed short. On this side of the house it stretched for over two acres before it reached the forest that surrounded the estate. “Stormfly!” Astrid called loudly. She stopped once she had cleared the house, looking around. The dog was still nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t blame the creature. Having been stuck in a carriage for more than a day was not something anyone would enjoy. In the shadow of the building, she saw the figure of a man bent over, tending to the shrubbery.

“You must be the groundskeeper,” she said loudly, walking towards him. “My uncle told me about you. Have you seen my dog? She came running through here but I can’t seem to call her.”

He stood as she neared, and she noticed that he was a large man, standing well above six feet and had a heavily muscular frame. He turned to look at her, and she hesitated for a moment, taken aback by the blue tattoos on his face. When he uncle had said the man had tattoos she didn’t expect them to be on his _face._ She lifted her own chin up and took the last few steps so she was standing a comfortable distance from him. “My name is Astrid Hofferson,” she said. “My uncle is the new owner of this house and grounds. I assume you’re the groundskeeper?”

“Eret,” the man said, his voice accented.

“Eret,” she repeated, “Well, it’s very nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, and he blinked at it, before removing his right gardening glove and shook it.

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat.

She eyed him, sizing him up, before saying, “Very curious choice of placement,” she motioned to her chin.

He didn’t blink. “Not where I come from,” was his composed reply.

“I’d very much like to hear about that,” she said, her eyes drifting to the grounds again. “Have you seen my dog?”

“Fast creature,” Eret said, “Ran by here just now. Went off towards the woods.”

“Thank you,” she said, lifting up her skirt a notch so as not to dirty it, and began walking towards the tree line.

“Ma’am,” Eret said, stopping her. She turned to look at him. “I’m afraid I can’t let you go in there by yourself. The woods are not safe for a young woman.”

“I assure you I will be fine,” she said, “And besides, what could possibly harm me? A deer? Or perhaps a squirrel?”

“The woods are dangerous,” he said. “And besides, you may get lost.”

“Well, you’ve finally made a good point,” she said. “Very well, you can come with me.”

The man raised his thick, dark eyebrows.

“Oh don’t worry,” she said, “No one is around to ask prying questions.”

He nodded and followed her across the lawn. “It’s very well kept,” she said, “Your work, I presume?”

“Yes,” was his reply, and she could detect a slight arrogance to his tone, indicating he knew the high worth of his skills.

“You do your job well,” she said, “I’ll have to make sure my uncle keeps you on.” She took in a deep breath. “The air is so clear here—nothing like Boston.”

“I would guess,” he said.

“Have you ever been to Boston?” she asked.

“Not in a long time,” he replied.

“Wonderful city,” she said.

“Why made you move out here, then?”

She breathed out, and then in again. “I’m afraid people don’t look at me very kindly there at the moment. But I don’t really care what they think. How long have you been the groundskeeper here?”

He was quiet for a moment, before saying, “Quite a few years.”

It was cryptic, and begged curiosity, but Astrid resigned from pressuring the man. He clearly did not want to talk about it. They walked in silence the rest of the way, until they reached the woods. “Lots of oaks, and birches,” she noted as they walked between the trees.

“Hence why the estate is called White Oaks,” Eret replied, bending down and brushing leaves away from the ground. “She went this way.” He straightened and walked deeper into the woods.

“Do you hunt?” she asked, surprised.

“I’m good at tracking, and trapping,” he said.

“Really? You are a man of many talents,” she looked around. “Doesn’t seem too dangerous.”

“It’s more dangerous at night,” he said.

“Of course it is,” she muttered. “Stormfly!” she called out, cupping her hands to her mouth. “Stormfly, come here girl!”

She heard distant barking. “She must have come this way,” she said, hiking up her skirts and taking off between the trees. She heard Eret call out her name, but she was nearing the barking. They weren’t far into the forest, so she doubted she could get into much trouble. She entered a clearing, overgrown and in shambles, with a stone mausoleum at the center of a dead garden. Stormfly was standing before the great wooden doors, growling and barking menacingly.

She stopped once she neared, shivering though there was no chill in the late summer air. “Stormfly,” she said, clapping her hands, “Come here girl.”

Eret walked up beside her, breathing slightly labored from the run. “You shouldn’t run off,” he said, “And we should get back to the house.”

“What is this place?” she asked, pointing at the mausoleum.

“A grave,” he said, taking her shoulder gently and trying to steer her away.

She shrugged him off, walking towards it and Stormfly. “ _Come,_ girl,” she said, crouching down beside Stormfly. “What is it?”

The dog growled, amber eyes fixed on the doors.

“It’s locked, see?” Astrid stood, tugging on Stormfly’s collar. “Let’s go, girl. I’ll give you some rawhide.”

At this magic word, Stormfly’s ears perked, and she turned and trotted off towards the house. “Who’s buried all the way out here?” Astrid asked Eret as they followed the dog from the clearing.

“The family who built this estate,” Eret said. “The Haddocks.”

“The Haddocks? I haven’t heard of them,” Astrid said.

“They and their family died over a century ago,” he said. “The house has passed from owner to owner since.”

“Is that why that place is so… overgrown?” she asked.

“No one liked to go near it,” Eret said, his voice strangely haunted.

“How ridiculous,” she snorted.

“Yes, ridiculous,” he agreed, although his tone indicated he did not quite agree with the statement.

They walked in silence until they reached the house again. “Thank you, for helping me finding my dog,” she said, “I’ll leave you to your work.”

He nodded, tipping his hat.

Stormfly at her heels, she turned and walked round to the front of the house, up the stairs to the porch, and through the front door. Inside the house was in excellent shape; evidently the Haddocks were an exceedingly wealthy family with fine tastes, but it was painfully outdated and old fashioned. She walked through the halls and rooms, gazing at the many painting on the walls. There were many of the family—the Haddocks—at least she assumed it were them. They seemed to be a family of three. She stopped before a particularly large painting. A young man was the subject, the son of the household, wearing a uniform typical of the continental army. He was tall, and rather thin, with a long nose and freckles, messy auburn hair, and startlingly green eyes.

The painter positioned his eyes so they seemed to move with the viewer, keeping eye contact at all times. After not long, she grew uncomfortable with their intensity, so she looked lower, to see that the painter had drawn a silver scar under his mouth. She frowned. Curious that they should paint something like that.

She heard a rustle behind her, and turned, expecting to see Stormfly, but saw nothing.

She gave the young man one last look, before turning and walking down the corridor.

* * *

 

“Miss Hofferson, I’m sorry to hear about your engagement,” Mr. Roaksfield said, “Absolutely tragic.”

“Not at all,” Astrid said, smiling benignly at the portly man.  “I’m the one who broke it off, and I daresay I’m better off for it.”

There was an awkward silence, before Mrs. Roaksfield said, “What a shame—I hear he’s a wonderful man.”

Astrid opened her mouth to rebuke this statement, but her uncle cut her off, saying, “Well, thank you so much for having us over—and again, I must apologize for my wife’s absence. She’s was tired out by our trip.”

“Of course,” Mr. Roaksfield said. “I’m just glad to have met you. The previous owners of White Oaks stayed barely a month.”

“A month?” Astrid’s head perked up. “Why such a short time?”

“Scared, I suppose,” Mr. Roaksfield mused. “The house and grounds are said to be haunted.”

“Haunted?” her uncle laughed, and Astrid herself chuckled.

“It’s been said to be haunted for over a century,” Mrs. Roaksfield said, rather seriously.

“Iris here claims to have seen a ghost when she visited as a young woman,” Mr. Roaksfield said.

“I _did_ see it,” Mrs. Roaksfield said, sending her husband a cutting glare.

“Over a century,” Astrid frowned, “You don’t think it’s the Haddocks, do you?”

“I _know_ it,” Mrs. Roaksfield looked Astrid straight in the eye, “I saw them. The lady of the house and her son. Just as they were in all those paintings that are still hanging up.”

Astrid raised her eyebrows, a smile playing on her lips.

“Laugh all you want,” Mrs. Roaksfield sniffed. “That place is haunted. And the groundskeeper—he knows something about it.”

“Eret?” Astrid asked.

“Yes... unholy man,” Mrs. Roaksfield said darkly. “He keeps the estate’s secrets. Been working there as long as I can remember.”

There was a long silence, before her uncle slapped a hand on his protruding belly and said, jovially, “Well, Adam, I must thank you, your wife, and your cook for a splendid evening, but I should probably be getting back to my wife.”

“Of course,” Mr. Roaksfield stood, “Perhaps we can go for a hike together sometime—or a hunt, perhaps.”

“That would be excellent,” her uncle agreed. The four walked to the foyer, where the Roaksfield’s servants were waiting with their coats.

As her uncle and Mr. Roaksfield shook hands, Astrid said a quick goodbye to Mrs. Roaksfield. As she turned to follow her uncle out of the mansion and to the carriage waiting outside, Mrs. Roaksfield grabbed her arm. “Beware,” the old woman whispered. “You’re a young, pretty, malleable thing. _Don’t let them get to you.”_

Astrid’s eyebrows furrowed, and she pulled her arm out of the woman’s grasp. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, and followed her uncle out the door.

The ride back to White Oaks was long, although Astrid decided it was the late hour and day of traveling to blame, not the dark note the evening was left on.

“Well,” her uncle said as they pulled up the great white house she was to call home from now on. “Exciting, to live in a haunted house, is it not?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Uncle Finn,” she said, stepping out of the carriage and walking towards the steps. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”


	2. Chapter 2

Astrid was in that lovely state between sleep and wakefulness, drifting from one end to the other with leisure. She felt warm, under deep covers. She could hear the crackle of the fire—and knew that a maid must have made it up recently. It was morning— but there were traces of light coming in through the curtains. She took in a deep breath, feeling lazy and comfortable and not at all feeling like getting _out_ of bed. For once, she wanted to sleep all day if she could, stay in this state of tranquility. She breathed in deeply, feeling comforted by the form beside her. Who it was, she hadn’t a clue, but she didn’t quite care. She felt a cool hand brush a hair away from her ear, and she shivered—and sat up suddenly, eyes wide, looking wildly to the spot on the bed beside her.

It was empty, undisturbed. No one had been sleeping there all night. She touched her ear, and found it cold to the touch. She took in a deep breath, trying to calm her breathing so as to lessen the surge of anxiety she felt pulsing through her veins. It was just a dream. A fantasy of some kind. Made real by the flicker of consciousness she had been experiencing. No one had slept beside her. No one had touched her ear. She got out of the grand bed, slipping her feet into her slippers. She walked towards the fire, but hesitated, looking over at the wall with the windows. Between the two, tall windows was a large painting, with the young man she had seen a painting of yesterday, although this one was arguably less grim. He was in plain, but wealthy looking clothes, sitting and smiling slightly, a large black dog by his side. But like the painting yesterday, he seemed to be staring through the confines of paint and canvas, and straight at her. She grabbed her robe from the lounging chair and pulled it on, tying it securely in front of her. This room must have belonged to this young man, or perhaps he just liked having his portrait hung in _any_ room.

She walked over to a window, glaring at the painting for good measure, and pulled the curtain open, peering out. It was later than she thought—the curtains were quite thick and kept much of the light out. Outside she could see the great lawn and the stables. She could see the stable master’s son taking one of the horses for a walk, and in a garden between the stables and the house, she could see the groundskeeper, Eret, tending to the flowers. She frowned.

Strange, that Mrs. Roaksfield should mention him last night. He seemed no different to her than any other man. Perhaps a bit more cryptic, like he had seen things he wished he hadn’t, but not _unholy._ What secrets about the house could he possibly know? Most likely it was just the musing of an old madwoman. Her memory must not be very good if she claims Eret has been groundskeeper for as long as she can remember.

She let the heavy curtain fall, turning and walking towards the other side of the room, towards the door. She opened it, cool air drifting in from the hall. She turned, standing just in the doorframe, and looked at the portrait again. The young man was gazing at her, and if she didn’t know better, she could have sworn his smile had widened ever so slightly.

* * *

 

“Good morning, Uncle Finn,” she said as she entered the informal dining hall.

“Good morning,” her uncle said, his head concealed by a newspaper. He looked up as she walked past him to the table with food and grabbed herself a plate, helping herself. “What on _Earth_ are you wearing?”

“What does it look like?” she asked, putting healthy portions of hash, cutlets, fried tomatoes, and egg on her plate. She poured herself a large cup of coffee, and put only a tad bit of cream in. She brought her plate and cup to the table and sat adjacent to her uncle.

“Well, it _looks_ like you’re wearing a nightgown,” came her uncle’s disgruntled reply.

“I’m wearing a robe,” she said, taking a sip of the hot coffee. It nearly burned her tongue, but she daresay she enjoyed the sharp wake-up call. She was still drowsy from her unnatural awakening, and the memory of cold fingers brushing against her ear and neck was still burning in her mind. She hoped a cup or two of coffee would warm her senses and eradicate any whimsical dreams that still lingered. “Surely you’ve seen women in _robes_ before, uncle.”

“I’d rather not see my _niece_ in one,” her uncle muttered, making a show of opening his newspaper again and burying his head in it. “And it’s almost eleven, you should be dressed by now.”

“And yet we’re having _breakfast_ ,” was her quick reply, to which her uncle said nothing.

“Is there something wrong with the heating?” she asked through a mouthful of hash. “It’s damn cold. And it’s September.” She had also noticed that none of the rooms she had been in had working radiators. With the cold months approaching fast, this was a troubling revelation.

“It’s an old house,” he replied. “A previous owner tried to install a heating system but… they moved before it was finished. I mean to have someone look into finishing it. The water is heated though, thank God.”

“I would _very_ much appreciate that,” she said, taking a bite of egg. She took another sip of coffee, her free hand touching her ear again experimentally. It was warm again, and she allowed herself a soft sigh. Whatever had possessed her to think someone had been sleeping beside her? Was it a subconscious retribution for calling off her wedding? Regardless, she didn’t want to think on it anymore. “How’s Auntie?” she asked her uncle.

“Well,” he replied from behind the newspaper. “Having breakfast in bed.”

Astrid finished her breakfast in silence, had another cup of coffee, and headed back to her room to change.

* * *

 

She sat in a lounging chair, legs stretched out on the wicker mesh, shoes off. She was only half pretending to read the article in The New York Times on wireless connections, and was instead peering over the top of the paper to watch Eret weed the flower beds. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on him as he worked. He didn’t seem altogether strange. In fact, he rather seemed to be enjoying himself. And did not seem to notice or care that she was nearby, watching him work. Finally, she gave up passing the time, and folded the newspaper up, placing it on the small, short, white table beside her, next to the tray of tea and oatmeal cookies. She got up, grabbed her shoes, and walked over to him, Stormfly following at a close distance.

“Good afternoon, Eret,” she said, “Or do you have a last name you would prefer to be called?”

“Eret is fine,” he grunted, not turning to look at her.

She cocked her head, watching him for a moment, before saying, “Last night we had dinner with the Roaksfields. Mrs. Roaksfield had some interesting comments on you.”

“Did she?” he paused, and then stood up, brushing his gloved hands together, and turning to look at her. “And what, exactly, did she say?”

“A plethora of unsavory things,” she said, “But the most notable comment was that you’ve been groundskeeper as long as she can remember. How long, _exactly_ , have you been groundskeeper here?”

“A long time,” he said, reaching down to grab the basket of pulled weeds, taking off towards the garden and green houses.

She followed. “Yes, but how many years? You can’t be older than thirty—thirty-five at the oldest. I just find it strange that someone would think you have worked here for much of her life, when she is considerably older than you.”

“She must be confusing me with my father,” he replied, “His name was also Eret.”

“Oh?” she paused. It was a rational and good explanation. And Mrs. Roaksfield was getting on in age. They were almost at the garden house, which was attached to the green houses, and she said, “Do you know anything about them?”

“About who?” Eret opened the door and walked through, and Astrid nearly followed, but remember to put on her shoes in time. Inside the garden house was dark and musty. There was a door attached that she assumed led to the greenhouse.

“The Haddocks,” she said. “I’m curious about them. In my bedroom, there’s a painting—I assume of their son.”

“Hiccup,” Eret said quietly.

“I noticed there aren’t any paintings of him older than 25 or so. Did he die young?”

“The war,” Eret said, as he put tools away and gathered more, “Took its toll on many people.”

“The war… you mean the Revolutionary War?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re rather grim,” she said, “For a groundskeeper.”

He looked at her. “I do what I must to survive,” he said.

Her eyes widened slightly, her brows rising, and she almost laughed at the grandeur and drama of his statement, but when she realized he was being honest and non-facetious she held her tongue. “Are there any records of this family?” she asked, “Journals, bookkeeping… anything?”

“You can try the library,” he said. “You might find something in there. But I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Why’s that?” she asked playfully, laughter in her voice again.

“You might not like what you find. Or what finds you,” was his reply.

This time she did snort. “You sound like Mrs. Roaksfield,” she said. “She’s convinced the house in haunted.”

“I guess Mrs. Roaksfield isn’t as daft as she appears,” he said, sounding far more casual and pleasant than he normally did. His tone had regained some of that cockiness she had glimpsed yesterday, and she got the distinct impression that he was naturally cocky—but years of troubled times had made him more reserved.

“Well,” she said, “Thank you for entertaining me, Eret, I’ll leave you to it.” She turned and left the garden house, heading towards the back entrance to the main house. Inside it was considerably cooler, and she headed through the many halls and rooms until she reached the library. It was more extensive and grander than the library at home. But then again, her parent’s home was rather modern, and not over a century old. She stood at the entrance, trying to ignore the massive family portrait hanging on one of the few wall spaces not covered by shelves. Where to start…

She decided to start at the shelf closest to her, peering at the books. These must cost a fortune, she guessed. Many were in foreign languages, some hand written, and some seeming to date back multiple centuries. Stormfly played with a bone on an elaborate Persian rug in the center of the room, between a few sofas and chairs. Astrid got through one bookcase, and decided to take a break, walking over to a sofa and sitting down, putting one leg up on it. “This is absolutely _boring,_ Stormfly,” she told the dog. “There’s absolutely _nothing_ to do here.”

The dog ignored her, too engrossed in her bone.

Astrid sighed, turning her eyes on the portrait. Like most of the portraits, their eyes seemed to be staring right at her. The father, a great, burly man with an impressive flaming red beard, was standing stoically, his wife, seated before him, had a rather despondent expression on her face. The son was standing beside his father, and was the only one who seemed to be smiling. She turned her head to one side, gazing at him. He was handsome, she supposed, if the paintings bore a great likeness.

She heard the door creek and soft footfalls approach behind her, and smiled. “Come to entertain me, uncle?” she asked, turning to look at the entrance at the far end, but found that no one had entered. And yet the door was opened, when she could have sworn it had been shut the last time she had looked this way. She frowned, her heart beating a few paces faster than before despite her better judgement. “Must be a draft,” she said, turning her head to look back at the portrait, when she felt an icy hand lay on her shoulder. She jumped and shuddered, nearly falling off the couch.

Stormfly leapt to her feet, growling at the air behind the sofa. Astrid stood, placing a hand to her shoulder. The fabric and skin beneath were cold against her hand. She looked around the room, but that only served to confirm that she and Stormfly were alone. She let out a long breath, shivering, not from the cold, but from a foreign sense of fear. She must be going mad, she thought. Or perhaps she had started to drift to sleep, and had entered the same dream she had this morning. “Let’s go, Stormfly,” she said, walking as quickly as she could towards the entrance she had used to enter the room. Stormfly picked up her bone with her mouth and followed. As she crossed the library, Astrid looked up at the portrait. It seemed her eyes deceived her, for the young man, _Hiccup,_ Eret had said, had a definite frown on his lips. She paused at the doors, her breathing calming, but the sense of foreboding settling in her gut made no attempts to calm itself. She grabbed one of the doors and opened it, walking through, Stormfly at her side. She closed the library door from the other end, and took another breath.

“That was strange,” she told Stormfly. “I must be going mad. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

But as she furthered herself from the library, heading towards the kitchen to get some tea to warm herself with, she realized she as much said that to convince _herself_.


	3. Chapter 3

It was warm the next week, although Astrid felt oddly chilled. Fall was just around the corner—and yet it seemed as warm here in the country as it would have been in Boston. She did not experience any more chilling touches or footsteps that belonged to no feet. Nor did any paintings smile or frown at her. In fact, she was chopping both experiences up to lack of rest and the trauma of moving.

Eret made a point of ignoring her, she found. He seemed to have little concern for the Hoffersons. She realized after not long he was used to the estate passing from owner to owner—no one staying long enough to develop any kind of relationship with.

She sighed and sank deeper into the water. Currently the house was under repairs—or upgrades, perhaps was the better term. Workmen were milling in and out all week to finish the heating system. Astrid was just thankful that the plumbing had already been installed by a previous owner. She would have gone straight back to Boston had it not.

The water was warm, although it was cooling off now. She knew she would be a prune when she got out, but she needed a few more moments of rest. Stormfly was not far, chewing on a dried pig’s ear, making a mess on the black and white tiled floor. Before her, a great mirror leaned against the wall, her reflection gazing back at her. The plumbing, her uncle said, needed upgrades too, but they were going to wait until the spring to work on that. She gazed at her reflection. She looked tired, her hair pulled up in a loose bun to keep it from getting wet. She scooted towards the back of the tub and rested against it, looking down at the water and her reflection shimmering and quivering in it. She looked just as tired in the reflection in the water as she did the mirror.

She had no slept well of late. The memory of an icy hand on her shoulder still ever present in her mind’s eye. She could still _feel_ it, its chill sinking deep under her skin.

She closed her eyes, leaning her head back. She should get out of the tub, but she just couldn’t make herself do it. This was the most relaxed she’s been in days. She felt herself drifting—almost nearing sleep, and sighed as she felt a cool breath on her neck.

_“Astrid,”_ she heard a soft, male voice breathe just by her ear.

She started, opening her eyes and turning her head, only to see that it was Stormfly gazing at her, snorting hot breaths in her face. She had finished her pig’s ear and was asking for another treat. “Stormfly,” Astrid said, frowning. She looked around, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. She was alone, save for Stormfly. She looked at the mirror. She saw herself in it, but no shadow of a man she could have sworn was knelt behind her. “How strange,” she whispered to Stormfly, standing quickly and grabbing a towel. She quickly donned her robe, for she had the innate sense that something other than Stormfly was watching her. “Come, Stormfly,” she said, snapping her fingers and leaving the bathroom. They walked down the hall and to her bedroom.

She entered, not for the first time ignoring the large painting of Hiccup. She had not grown used to him, always watching her, and suspected she never would. She had confirmed that this _was_ the room he had lived in while he was alive. At times, at night especially, she wished she could move to another room—but her uncle always dissuaded her, telling her it was too much trouble for the servants to move her now, and no guest room was as fine and pleasant as the room she was currently residing in. She got dressed quickly and sat on the bed with a book, trying to read as best she could.

_When_ she fell asleep, she could not say. It seemed to her she was reading one minute—and waking up the next. It was dark, and she had the faint recollection that she had woken from her stomach growling. “Drat,” she muttered, standing. “Stormfly?”

The dog lifted her brindle head, looking at her with curiosity. “Are you hungry, Stormfly?” Astrid asked the dog.

Stormfly gave a few thumps of her tail, and Astrid smiled. “I daresay it’s past dinner, but we can get something good out of the pantry.” She lit a lamp and tugged her robe tighter, opening the door and stepping out, Stormfly at her heels. They walked through the halls—quiet as they were, the only light to guide them the pulsing, luminescent flicker of the flame within the glass dome of her lamp. They had reached the ground floor, when Stormfly gave a loud bark, and sped off down a hall.

“Stormfly!” Astrid hissed, quickly following the dog. “You’ll wake everyone up!”

She followed the dog as best she could, finding herself in the wing of the house that was mostly kept closed up. Large white sheets covered furniture and tables, keeping them safe from the erosion of time. “Stormfly?” she asked, looking around. The dog was nowhere to be seen, and although Astrid had been in this wing before, she had not at night, and it looked different to her now. “Stormfly?” she repeated, a little louder.

She stopped, sighing. The silly dog was nowhere. She most likely found herself out of this wing, and was already eating the food laid out for her each evening. As Astrid turned to walk back to the more livable section of the great house, she looked up at a large painting, nearly as tall as the wall itself. Like most of the paintings in this house, it portrayed members of the Haddock family. Stoick, the father, and next to him, was Hiccup. She hesitated, tilting her head to one side as she gazed up at the young man. He was looking off to the left, at something of interest that was hidden from the viewer.

Gentle, cool fingers touched her arm, and she started, nearly dropping her lamp as she turned to see who had snuck up on her, only to find that she was, yet again, alone in the room. “Who’s there?” she called out, keeping her voice steady, but there was no answer—only the drafty wind coming in through cracks in the windows panes.

She scowled, and walked towards the exit, turning her head to look at the painting once again, and found, not to her surprise, that Hiccup’s eyes followed her out of the room.

* * *

 

“Eret?” she called, as she stepped into the doorframe of the garden house. The small building was empty of human life, and so she stepped out and walked over to the greenhouse, pulling open the large glass door and stepping through. “Eret? Are you in here?”

“I’m over here,” she heard the man say from somewhere on the other end. The greenhouse was spectacular, she had to admit. There were many exotic plants everywhere, some even climbing to the tall glass ceiling.

She rounded a corner and smiled. “There you are,” she said.

The man flashed her a smile, but as usual there was little emotion in it. “What can I do for you, ma’am?” he asked pleasantly.

“Oh, I was just wondering if you knew what that little shed was for,” she pointed towards the west end of the grounds. “There are many large windows, but they seemed to be boarded up. I was just wondering what that building was used for.”

Eret turned to look in the direction she had pointed, and said, “That was Hiccup’s studio.”

“Studio?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Was he a painter?”

“He dabbled,” Eret replied, “Although he much preferred to invent and create things.”

“You know a lot about him,” she teased, “If I didn’t know better I’d say you knew him personally.”

Eret gave her a pained, annoyed look, and said, “Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am?”

“No, I suppose not,” she sighed. “Except I would love to see you smile, sometime.”

He gave her one, forced and stiff.

“A _real_ smile,” she halfheartedly glared. “What happened to you to make you so… grim?”

He eyed her, but did not reply. She narrowed her eyes, returning his scrutiny. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, “I’ll figure it out eventually. The studio is locked—is there a key?”

“I suppose there must be, somewhere, if there’s a lock,” was his reply.

She narrowed her eyes again. “You’re being characteristically cryptic again,” she said. “Come out with it. Where’s the key? Or should I ask my uncle to ask you for it? He is the owner and therefore that studio and everything in it belongs to him.”

Eret turned to look at her, brows furrowed. “The key is in my house,” he said. “I’ll get it for you.”

She nodded her thanks as he turned and walked out of the greenhouse. He returned not long after, and handed her a large, ancient looking brass key. “Be careful,” he warned her, “There’s much about Hiccup you might learn, if you go in there. Almost as if you’re really meeting him.”

“Enough with your ghost mumblings,” she returned, taking the key. “Thank you for fetching it for me.”

She left the greenhouse and Eret, conscious of his eyes following her out and out of sight. She headed across the trimly cut lawn, heading for the studio. She took in a deep breath as she stood before it. Inside there may be answers as to who this Hiccup was, and why it always seemed that his eyes in paintings followed her wherever she went. How she could swear she could feel his presence just behind her. How she could hear his breathing in the shadows. His cold, gentle touches. She knew it was all in her imagination, so perhaps if she found out more about him, it would satisfy whatever this infatuation was.

She put the key in the lock, turning it, smiling when she heard the satisfying _click_ of the gears. She pulled the door open, peering inside. It was mostly dark, but shafts of light were falling across the room from where the window boards did not quite cover the glass. Her form was illuminated by the sunlight coming in behind her. Her shadow stretched out, elongated and distorted, the tip of her bun pointing to a table at the far end. She took in a breath, and stepped in, walking through the dusty, dark room until she reached the table. There were many bottles and brushes, and tools that looked like those her cousin, who was an engineer, used, but older and more rudimentary. She ran her fingers across the edge of the desk, and when they came away, they were coated with dust. She rubbed the fingers of that hand together to brush it off, when a glint of gold caught her eye. She leaned over so as to see what had caught the light, as saw it was the gold accents on a large brief—a portfolio of some kind. It was wedged between the table and a counter. She grasped it, and pulled it out slightly, and saw it was indeed a portfolio, made of finely crafted leather with gold accents and engravings. She moved into a better position, and pulled it out.

It was large, as most portfolios were. She held it out in front of her, turning so as to see with the light coming in through the door. On its golden clasp three letter were engraved, _HHH_.

“Hiccup Haddock…” she murmured. She wondered what the middle H stood for. She laid the portfolio on a table in the middle of the room, and tried to open the clasp, but found it was securely locked. “Damn…” she muttered. There must be a key somewhere…she just had to look.

But it was far too dark to see clearly in the shadows and forgotten corners, and she did not fancy trekking back to the house just to get a lamp or candle in the middle of the day. There were a few candles and lanterns in the studio, but she could not locate any matches.

She walked over to a window, trying to pry the wood that was covering it. It did not budge, for it was secured with nails.

She just had to find the key without the use of light.

She looked everywhere, discovering much. For one, she found that Hiccup had an interest in carving wood. He also seemed fascinated with gadgets and inventions, and there were many contraptions that she avoided, save it explode or combust. But, despite her best work, she found no key.

“I suppose I could cut it open,” she said, picking up the heavy leather case. It would be a shame though, for it was finely made. But she would do what she must to see its contents. She knew it must have been important to him, and therefore, it was important to understanding him.

She ran her hands along it, not minding that they were gathering dust again, and looked up to gaze at her reflection in the tall mirror on the wall before her.

But found she was not alone.

Just behind her, a figure stood, shadowy and translucent, like a white mist taking the shape of a man. She dropped the portfolio and turned, but saw no one behind her. She looked back at the mirror. There he stood, just behind her.

Hiccup Haddock.

Her heart quickened as he approached, reaching out a ghostly, shimmering hand.

“Stop!” she commanded, turning and violently waving her hand where he would have stood. The air sizzled slightly, as if heated by some other force, and she stood glaring at the empty space before her. She finally turned back to the mirror, and found it to be as it should be. Merely a reflector of what was there. There was no imaginary man standing behind her.

She took in a deep breath. Was it just her imagination? Or was there truly the ghost of Hiccup here just moment’s ago?

It was a preposterous thought, and yet, she knew there was little other explanation—other than her losing her mind.

Still, she gathered the portfolio into her arms, and walked out of the studio, closing the door behind her and locking it. She held the key close to her heart, glaring at the door. What was it Eret had said? It would be like meeting Hiccup himself? What did Eret know of this house and its rumors? She knew it would be futile to confront him on the subject. He would be as cryptic as ever, avoiding making any opinion on the matter.

Out in the sunlight, she felt safer. The sun warmed her shoulders, but she shivered nonetheless.

She might be going mad. Perhaps that was the best explanation. Perhaps that was the _easiest_ and _most pleasant_ explanation. But either way….

“Leave me alone,” she hissed, turning and walking back to the house.


	4. Chapter 4

Astrid opened her eyes. It was dark—still night, she presumed. The world around her seemed strange, almost clouded and effervescent, pulsing with an energy that was unbeknownst to her. She looked at her bedside table, and saw that her lamp was no longer there, and in its place was a partly burnt down candle, and a few books beside it.

She heard someone take a deep breath, and turned her head to gaze at the spot on the bed beside her, to see the sleeping form of a man. Unlike the world around her, he was as she was. Tangible, clear, _alive._ His head was turned away from her, but she would recognize that messy mop of hair anywhere. She reached out experimentally. Her fingertips touched his cheek, and she found he was warm to the touch.

He exhaled slowly, and turned his head towards her, still in slumber. His face seemed peaceful, and oddly pleasant. He seemed, to her, to be a normal human. Alive and not some shadow of a man. She shifted onto her side, and reached out with her other hand, running her fingers down his neck to the open collar of his night shirt.

Still his skin felt warm and soft to the touch.

She could _touch him_

But there was still one more test.

Gently, so as not to wake him up, she slipped her hand past the collar of his shirt, and rested it against his chest.

_Thump. Thump._

Her eyes widened slightly.

He was alive.

This was not some ghost sent to haunt her, but a living person. Somehow, in this strange world of shifting shadows and distorted vision, she was able to cross the barriers of death and touch this man who lived so long ago.

She looked at his face, and saw his eyes opening, his gaze unfocused and misty.

For a moment, they merely stared at each other, as he seemed to gain in wakefulness. His eyes filled with confusion, and he opened his mouth to speak—

She blinked.

He was gone. Her bed was as it was when she went to sleep. Undisturbed and made-up from yesterday morning—save for the section Astrid herself slept in. She looked around the room. The room and air was no longer shifting constantly. It was static and calm, and she knew that whatever she had just experienced, it was not the same as the reality she was used to.

She sat up, looking at her hand.

It was still warm from where it had rested against Hiccup. She could still feel his soft skin under her touch. She knew it could not have been a dream—or if it was, it was such a one that it assaulted her senses to the point of tangibility.

What could it have been? She supposed it could only _be_ a dream. Hiccup was not alive, after all, and one could not touch _ghosts._ Least not the ghost of the man in question.

But this Hiccup had been different than the Hiccup she had met prior. _This_ Hiccup was benign. He had a softness to him. A gentleness. There was nothing unkind or dangerous about him that she could tell from the few moments they spent together.

Perhaps this was some kind of sign. A message as to who Hiccup was before death.

She lay back down, closing her eyes and willing herself to fall asleep—or if sleep was not allowed, than another glimpse at this ‘real’ Hiccup.

Perhaps she should continue looking into Hiccup… discover exactly why he did not rest after death.

* * *

 

“Marnie?” Astrid called, opening the door to the back porch. Her uncle had left her aunt here before heading to his study—and had asked her to check on her in passing. “Auntie?”

She heard her aunt laughing, and Astrid stepped out, looking right and left, and finally spotted her aunt sitting on a rocking chair, plenty of plush pillows propped up behind her, and a large, soft blanket covering her lap.

“There you are, Auntie,” she said, walking towards her. Her aunt laughed again, and said, “Yes, I must say that is quite true… young ones… always in such a rush.”

Astrid paused, confused. She looked out to the lawn, expecting to perhaps see Eret tending to the shrubbery, but found that there was no one in the vicinity.

Stormfly growled, and Astrid shushed her. “Marnie?” she asked, walking up to her aunt. “Who are you talking to?”

“Oh, just a friend,” her aunt said, beaming up at her. “He was just telling me about his son.”

Astrid raised her eyebrows. “Are you feeling quite alright, Auntie?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” her aunt said, turning her head to look at the sofa next to her, “Oh, looks like he left…”

“Left?” Astrid stared at the sofa, and said, “Did you think you saw someone there?”

“Just Stoick,” her aunt said, settling back against the pillows.

“Stoick Haddock?” Astrid asked, startled. Anger sparked within her—before she realized how ridiculous it was to get angry at a figment of her aunt’s imagination. There was no such thing as ghosts, she reminded herself. The nagging memory of finding Hiccup sleeping in her bed the night before crept back into the forefront of her mind, but she pushed it away aggressively. “Are you quite alright, Marnie? Shall I call for the doctor? I’m sure Jackson can fetch him quite quickly.”

 “Oh, I’m fine,” her aunt started to close her eyes.

Astrid walked to the sofa and sat down, gazing at her aunt. “What was he like?” she asked.

“Stoic,” her aunt chuckled, eyes closed. “A little serious—he mentioned you.”

Astrid raised her eyebrows, and asked, “What did he say?”

“He said you are very important,” her aunt said, her voice indicating she was slipping towards sleep. “They have a plan for you.”

“A… a plan for _me_?” Astrid asked, confused.

“Yes…” her aunt was truly slipping now. “They want to…”

She was asleep.

“Auntie? Marnie?” Astrid sighed. Her aunt was asleep—and there was no waking her until it happened naturally. She leaned back, patting the seat next to her on the sofa for Stormfly, which the dog happily then occupied, and opened her book. She read a few paragraphs, before looking out at the brightly lit lawn, the contrast so great compared to the shadowed porch, at Eret trimming the grass. He always seemed to work hard—effortlessly, tirelessly, and without toil. In fact, she never saw him _not_ working, but then again, she never saw him past daylight hours.

She looked back down at her book, and stroked Stormfly’s blue-grey brindled back. “It’s alright, Stormfly,” she said softly to the napping dog, “Things will go back to normal, soon.”

* * *

 

“Where did she put them?” Astrid muttered to herself as she dug through her closet. Those shoes _must_ be here somewhere, unless Maddie forgot to unpack them, in which case Astrid had not a clue where they were. She blindly reached out and leaned her hand against the wall, and frowned when she felt a slight dip. She scooted towards it, hiking up her skirts so as not to trip forward, and felt a small rectangle, indented in the wall. It was some kind of door, she thought. She brushed her fingers against it, and found that there was a small handle.

“How strange,” Astrid murmured. “Stormfly? I found something very interesting. A little hidden door.”

She hooked her finger in the ring, and pulled out, and smiled with satisfaction as the little door swung out towards her. She coughed slightly as dust fell out of the inside, and peered within. The inside seemed empty, but she could not see much from inside the deepest part of her closet. She reached inside, until she touched something cool and hard, like metal. As her fingers slowly grasped it, she realized with a thumping heart it was a key.

She drew it out, and quickly scrambled out of the closet.

She wiped it off on her skirt to remove the dust that had gathered, and inspected it closely. “Doesn’t this look familiar?” she asked Stormfly, walking to the writing table and sitting down. Hiccup’s portfolio sat on top, and she compared the key to the metal accents and lock. It seemed to be made from the same material. “Too much of a coincidence,” she muttered. She turned to look at Stormfly. “I’m only going to be trying this key to see if it’s a match,” she told the dog matter-of-factly. “And if it is, I’m only looking out of curiosity, and not because I believe there to really be ghosts in this strange, old house. Understand?”

The dog thumped her tail slowly on the carpet.

“Good,” Astrid said, turning back to the task at hand. She inserted the key into the lock, and turned it, hearing a faint click as the lock was released. She breathed out slowly, and lifted the flap up. She repositioned the portfolio so as to take out its contents with ease, and a large stack of parchment and what appeared to be some kind of watercolor paper emerged. “Just plain old curiosity,” she murmured, gazing at the painting on top. It was of the house, almost exactly the same as it was now.

She was no artist herself, but she knew that Hiccup had some skill. He was not as skilled as many, not by a long shot, and as she moved from piece to piece, she discovered that he had more a knack and eye for designing objects and contraptions. Some things she had not a clue what they could be. Most, in fact. She wished she could ask him what they were and what they did. He seemed almost obsessed. It was a pity, she thought, that he did not live in the modern age. The uses he could put his mind to…

She was just about sigh in content, and put the pieces back in the portfolio for safe keeping, when she removed the second to last piece from the pile and gazed down on the last.

“Oh…” she exhaled slowly, her eyes growing wide and her heart skipping a few beats in surprise.

There, on a piece of parchment, etched out in fine lines of black ink, with accents of pastels…

Lying in her bed, arm outstretched towards the artist. It was a simple drawing, but there was no mistake. It was _her._

She carefully placed the drawing in her hand on the pile, and stood up, putting a hand on either side of the drawing of her, and gazing down with tribulation.

“Stormfly,” she said quietly, gaining the dog’s attention for merely a few moments. “I don’t believe I’m going mad after all.”


	5. Chapter 5

Astrid spent many a following night wondering if she’d wake, and find herself in that strange world again. She began to crave it—to know for sure if it had just been a dream—a figment of her imagination, or if, perhaps, _somehow_ , it was real.

She could still recall, faintly, the feel of his skin under her hand. The hair on his chest. She could still see in her mind’s eye the freckles on his face, so much clearer than they were in his paintings, if they were even painted at all. And the scar… it was a distinctive feature.

But his _eyes_ … they were so much greener than paint could ever portray. The paintings whose eyes followed her wherever she went were a poor imitation for the real thing. Hiccup’s eyes, at least the eyes she saw that night, were gentle, and kind.

Nothing like the empty, angry eyes of the ghost that had visited her in Hiccup’s studio.

And speaking of… She stood before the studio itself, key clutched in her hand. She took in a deep breath, steadying herself. If she were to do this—truly do this, she would have to prepare herself. It had been a few days since her encounter with the tangible Hiccup, and she needed to know more about him. She needed to know his secrets, to know _who_ he was. Perhaps if she could, he could finally pass on, and stop tormenting her in death.

She inserted the key into the lock, and turned it, hearing the mechanisms click. She pulled the door open, and her eyes widened as she looked inside.

It appeared as it was in her bedroom the other night. Inside the studio, the air was convoluted and shifting. Things appeared to be in some sort of dream—vibrating to its own rhythm. But that was not the only difference. The small building was filled with light, for the windows were uncovered, and it was, while unorganized, not covered in dust and disarray—partly destroyed by time, but seemed to be in working order.

But those things lost interest to her very quickly, for at the far end, seated at a desk, his back to her, was a young man, dressed in simple clothes of the times with a mess of auburn hair atop his head. She looked on her end to the outside wall beside her, and saw the window was indeed covered, and yet she could clearly see the light streaming in from it within. She swallowed, and stepped into the brightly lit room.

She took a few steps, and looked to the side, to see out through the first window. It appeared outside to be slightly different than the world she knew. It appeared to her to be like this room. Shifting in lights and shadows, almost in a way, reminiscent of a van Gogh. Everything seemed brighter and more saturated than she would have expected.

It must have been a gust of wind, for the door behind her blew against the frame with a vengeance, although it did not stay shut. She jumped slightly, and so did the man before her. He turned, eyes wide, and jumped again when he saw her. “Sorry,” he said, his voice slightly more nasal-intoned than she had imagined it would be, turning away just as quickly and covering whatever he was working on. “I didn’t see you there and—” he froze, and slowly turned on his stool to face her. He took in a deep breath, and said, hesitantly, “It’s… you…”

She realized that was her cue, and moved forward. “Yes, it’s me.” she said, pausing again after a few steps.

“I thought it was a dream,” he said, standing. “But you’re standing in front of me, clear as day—and I’m at least _relatively_ positive this isn’t a dream.”

“No, it’s not,” she agreed, grinning at him. “Well, I suppose it could be. But…” she looked around, “it is a strange and detailed dream.”

There was a moment of silence, as Astrid looked about the room, aware of his gaze studying her. He was staring at her as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. She did not blame him. If she did not meet his ghost, or see his paintings watching her, she would not believe it either. Perhaps she still didn’t. She looked back at him, and saw, to her surprised pleasure, he was staring at her, mouth slightly ajar.

“What is your name?” he asked, blinking after a moment and seeming to gather his thoughts. “And how did you come to be here?”

“My name is Astrid,” she said pleasantly, clasping her hands behind her back. “And I live here, actually.”

He looked confounded. “What do you mean, you… _live here?”_ he asked. “ _I_ live here. And I know _you_ don’t because… it’s our estate.”

She shook her head, smiling, “I live here _now,_ that is to say, in my _own_ time. You lived here in the colonial times.”

“Are you telling me you… are from a time that has not passed yet?” he asked. “Surely,” he gestured wildly in her general direction, “You cannot be from the past—I have made a study of history. Your dress does not match any that I am aware of. And the fact that we built this estate and its manor.”

“I suppose you could say that,” she said, smiling slightly. “I am from the future—well, _my_ present, _your_ future.”

“Well, that certainly explains your dress,” he said, motioning to her with an awkward jab of his hand. Suddenly he laughed as if faced with something he could not quite believe and ran a hand through his hair, leaving ink from his fingers. “This is impossible… You’re telling me you’re from the _future_?” his hands danced wildly in front of him as he spoke, “What is it like? I mean—if you _aren’t_ just some ghost or apparition or figment of my imaginings.”

She almost laughed at the irony of that statement.

“If… If I may be so bold,” he said, pausing, “May I touch you? I want to make sure you are _not_ some apparition.”

She paused, wondering herself what would happen if she touched him. She was able to the other night—but would this be the same? She found herself needing to know. She nodded, and held out her hand.

He took a few steps towards her, rubbing his hand on his shirt to remove any lingering ink. She noticed that he walked somewhat strangely, and wondered if something was wrong with his leg. He hesitated just before her, his hand outstretched for hers, and he looked up at her, green eyes troubled.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s nothing,” he said, with a small smile that told her it was not just nothing, “I’m just worried you’ll disappear if I touch you—like you did when you touched me the other night.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” she took a step towards him, her fingertips touching his. They both took in quick, deep breaths, and he smiled slightly, gently taking her hand in his, and holding it.

“You’re real,” he breathed. “But if you’re really here… you can’t be from the future.”

“Well, I am—unless you’re not really from the past—which I know you are,” they were both watching their hands, still entwined. His thumb was rubbing her hand gently, and she made no move to stop him.

Suddenly, he seemed to realize what he was doing and he dropped her hand, flushing slightly and said, “Pardon me, miss, I meant no ill offence.”

“It’s fine,” she said, drawing her hand back to herself. She could not help the smile that tugged at her lips. “At least we know now that we are not imagining things.”

“No…” he trailed off, and then looked back at her, a boy-like grin on his face. “I still can’t believe it. Though if I did not see you disappear from my bed…” he trailed off, his face turning a charming color of pink. “You were in my bed…” he said, somewhat unbelievingly.

“Yes,” she said, “That’s my bed, too.”

He looked at her, startled.

“That’s my bedroom—it’s where I sleep,” she said. “So I sleep in the bed too. You can imagine my surprise when I woke in the middle of the night and found a strange man beside me in my own bed.”

“As surprised as I was to find a stranger in mine,” he replied. He took in a breath, and said, “How is this possible? My mind is telling me this is some illusion—that I’ve suddenly gone mad and just imagining things. But… this _feels_ too real to just be in my mind. Do you know how or why this is happening?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, “You…I have a feeling your ghost has something to do with it.”

“Ghost?” he frowned.

“Yes,” she said, “You won’t leave me alone. In death, that is.”

“Strange,” Hiccup said, frowning.

“So…” she looked around, “This is what this little old building looks like when it’s being used…” she stepped away from Hiccup and walked around, until she reached the table he was working at. Whatever he was working on was covered by pieces of parchment. “What is this?” she asked, reached for them.

“Ah!” he was at her side in an instant, grabbing her wrist to stop her from uncovering whatever secret he had been working on. “I’m afraid it’s not ready to be seen yet,” he said. He looked down at his hand and released her wrist as if burned. “Forgive me,” he murmured, “I hope I did not hurt you.”

She rubbed her wrist, although he had not hurt her. “I’m fine,” she said just as quietly. They were standing remarkably close now, and she was tempted to reach up and touch his face again. He blinked, looking down in surprise and she realized that she was doing just that, and quickly retracted her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, a little breathlessly, although she did not feel very apologetic, “I suppose I’m just having a difficult time believing that you’re really here.”

“If you wish, you may confirm it, again,” he offered. “I have no objections.”

She smiled, knowing full well that if this had been in her time, or even his, and anything other than some dream or fantasy cooked up by the ghosts of White Oaks, she would never be so bold as to touch a strange man’s face. But… she reached up, her fingers a breath away from his scar, and just when he blinked again, his breath hitching slightly, she heard loud barking, and withdrew her hand automatically. She looked towards the door, and saw a large black dog standing at the entrance, barking loudly at them.

“Toothless!” Hiccup said loudly and irritably, “What is it, bud?”

She looked back at Hiccup, but suddenly, he was gone. She was overwhelmed with smell of dust and mold, and the studio plunged into darkness. The shifting lights and shadows were gone, replaced by reality’s stagnation. When she continued to hear a dog barking, she looked back over to see Stormfly standing at the entryway, barking at her.

She let out the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding, and took a few more ragged ones. “My god…” she breathed, her heart racing for a moment. What had come over her? What had just happened? A small part of her refused to believe that what she saw—what she _experienced_ was anything but a fantasy, but she knew it could not be. No fantasy, no illusion, no hallucination of the mind, was like _that,_ surely. It must have been some kind of vision—sent to her by the ghost of Hiccup. And yet she knew that her time spent in the past, even if it was strange and convoluted, had ramifications for the future. She found the drawing of herself, after all.

“Shush, girl,” she scolded Stormfly gently as she left the studio. She paused at the door, looking back into the dark room, and wondered if she’d meet this Hiccup again someday.

She much preferred him to his ghost.

* * *

 

Astrid visited the studio many times following that fateful afternoon. She tried many methods. She visited at the same time as she had that day, sometimes at completely different times, sometimes at midnight, sometimes at noon, and even the exact time the following week, but it was futile. It seemed she could not force this passage through time. Perhaps the ghost of Hiccup chose when and if she visited the Hiccup of the past.

She sat in front of her mirror, gazing at her reflection as she brushed her hair out. She would often wake in the middle of the night, wondering if Hiccup would be lying beside her. She was not sure what she would do if he was—now that she knew it had not just been a dream. Would she scream? Flee to a guest bedroom? Or would she stay and talk with him more—find more out about him.

She knew it was the latter. She needed to know more about him—if the ghost of Hiccup was to ever leave her alone. Something was keeping him from passing on—to Heaven or Hell, she did not know, although she strongly suspected the latter. Hiccup had done _something_ in his past, or perhaps something was done _to him_ , that kept him from moving past the world of the living.

She nearly put her brush down on the table, before she quickly resumed brushing her hair. What was wrong with her? How did it become so easy for her to believe in such things as ghosts? Perhaps she truly was losing her mind. She had a cousin who studied the mind, perhaps she could write to him and ask his opinion.

She nearly laughed. How preposterous. Even if she did, what would happen? He would either tell her she was a fool, and not to be so fanciful, or he would send her away, to be locked up and prodded and forgotten, until she too, was claimed by death.

She sighed, closing her eyes. After a few moments, she opened them again and gazed back at her reflection, only to find that she was no longer alone in the room.

She turned in her seat, and saw before her, not just in the reflection of a mirror, the ghostly form of Hiccup. She found it was far more comforting when he _only_ appeared in mirrors. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

He merely stared at her, his blank, glowing eyes unblinking.

“Say something,” she commanded. “I know you can talk—I heard you say my name while I was bathing the other day.”

He took a step, a glide more like, towards her, his arm outstretched, hand reaching for her.

Her pulse quickened as he neared, and she suddenly wished that Stormfly was here with her. The dog seemed to be able to see or sense Hiccup—and she might have scared him away or at least provided some comfort. “Don’t come any closer!” she said sharply, and he paused, arm still outstretched.

She stood, drawing herself up to her full height, although it was not nearly as tall as he, even if he had both feet on the ground. “Why are you still here?” she said, staring straight into his eyes.

He did not reply, and anger sparked in her chest, feeding a flame that she did not realize had been building. “Why are you following me? Why are you showing me visions of your past? Why are you still here?”

He said nothing still, his arm still outstretched for hers. She gave his hand a hard look, before looking back at him. She hesitantly reached out her hand for his, the air turning icy the closer it neared. Finally, she made to put her hand in his, but it felt through it with a hiss, and his hand dematerialized.

She retracted her hand, and his own reformed quickly, as if what had just happened did not transpire. “Looks like we can’t touch each other,” she said, looking up at him triumphantly. “Or at least, it looks like I cannot touch _you.”_

But her triumph over this menial discovery was short lived, for suddenly the air around her grew cold. She began to shiver, the windows blowing open, wind howling in past the curtains.

“Stop it!” she yelled, as the air hissed and sibilated with anger. She rushed to the closest window, trying to close it, but it would not budge. “Stop!” she rounded on the ghost, who still stood frozen in the center of the room. She walked over to him, reaching out to grab him but her hand fell through him, plunging it into iciness and a sizzle. She backed away from him, breathing heavily as she tried to figure out what she could do to stop him. “Stop it,” she breathed, “Please…”

Slowly, the wind died down, and the air returned to its peaceful normal. “Thank you,” she whispered.

A loud knock came from her door, and she jumped in surprise. “Who is it?” she asked loudly, still eyeing Hiccup, who had not budged.

“Me,” came her uncle’s voice. “I heard a ruckus, are you quite alright?”

“I’m fine,” she called back, “There was a gust of wind and the windows blew open.”

“Ah, well, do keep it down, will you? Your aunt is trying to rest.”

“I’ll try,” she replied irritably, as she listened to her uncle’s footsteps disappear. She swallowed slightly, and said to the still ghost, “Why did you do that?”

Hiccup turned his head towards her, the first movement he made since his tantrum, and glided towards her. She took a step back, and he hesitated.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said, and though quiet, her voice had a firm resolve.

She could feel his apology in the air, though no noise came from his form. He reached out his hand, gentler this time. “I can’t touch you,” she reminded him.

He took a few steps towards her, until they were arms-length away from each other, and he reached up for her face. She winced as his hand pressed against her cheek, icy and lifeless. She could not feel him, not as she would a living hand, but rather she could feel the pressure of his form—and she could feel his presence connecting with her skin. “Looks like you can touch me,” she said. “But why? Why are you still here?”

He seemed to sigh, and his hand dropped away as his form slowly faded from her vision.

She stared where he had stood, and sighed herself, frustrated. It seemed pointless to ask ghosts questions. She did not even know if he _could_ answer. And what would he say? What could she possibly do for him that would make him so infatuated with her? Was it because he saw her when he was alive?

She shivered again, and quickly went to close the windows. She returned to the dressing table, sitting and resuming her hair brushing. She wanted to know why Hiccup remained on Earth. Why he did not die properly.

It was strange—she had sympathy for the young man she met in that dream like state. The innocent, sweet, charming man who somehow had brought on his own form of hell after death.

But she could find no sympathy or empathy for the spirit who haunted her.

* * *

 

“Eret?” she called out, and then coughed politely and said, “Mr. Eret?”

She heard footsteps from inside the small cottage, and the door opened to reveal the man. He peered down at her with an annoyed expression, before it quickly vanished and was replaced by a pleasant one. “Anything I can do for you, miss?”

“Yes,” she said, “I was rather hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”

“Questions?” he frowned. “About what?”

“This place… and the fact that the Haddocks are still… well, not alive, but _here,”_ she motioned with her hands.

His brow furrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow what you’re talking about, miss.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” she said. “I know you know something about why there appears to be a ghost of Hiccup wandering around the grounds.”

He stared at her with a placid expression, before saying, “Do you have a fever? Or perhaps you need to see a doctor.”

He began to close the door, but she quickly stuck her foot in to stop it. She winced with her whole body as her foot was caught, and he opened it quickly. “Are you out of your mind?” he demanded angrily.

“Well,” she said, still wincing and balancing on one foot. “I daresay my foot needs to be taken care of. I’m sure a man like you knows how to care for a perhaps sprained ankle?”

He sighed in defeat, opening his door the rest of the way and stepped back to allow her to enter. “I assure you no one will doubt your decency,” she informed him as she hobbled in, trying her best not to reveal that most of it was pretending. “No one can see us and frankly, I doubt my uncle would care all that much.”

Eret didn’t reply, and instead motioned for her to sit on a chair.

His cottage was small, and appeared to be mostly one room. He had many things, and most of them, she was surprised to find, looked old. Very old. She sat in the chair and began removing her shoe and stocking.

He knelt before her, and examined her foot, pressing parts of it.

“What do you know of the Haddocks?” she asked, to which he did not reply. “Why is Hiccup’s ghost visiting me?” again, there was no reply. “And why can I visit Hiccup in the past—while he was still alive—” she closed her mouth in surprise at the look he gave her.

He looked shocked, eyes wide, staring at her open mouthed. Suddenly his mouth snapped shut, and he blinked. “You… you’re saying you’ve visited Hiccup while he was… _alive?”_ was his slow response.

“Yes,” she said, and then she grinned down at him. “I knew you believed me.”

“I don’t,” was his reply. “I don’t believe you actually saw Hiccup, just that you’re going mad.”

“Did this happen to previous residents?” she asked, “Is that why the estate was sold so many times? Was it just the young women? Why? Does Hiccup have some infatuation with women?”

Eret returned to inspecting her foot, suddenly much more interested in it than he had been before.

“Answer me,” she said, although she knew, in this instance, she could not threaten to ask her uncle to force him to do so.

He let go of her foot, saying, “Your foot is fine. You should be able to walk without any trouble,” and stood.

“You didn’t answer my questions,” she said.

“I don’t have to answer the questions of a madwoman,” he replied, walking away from her.

She scowled, feeling frustration creep into her bones. “Perhaps I’ll just visit the mausoleum and see if _that_ has any answers—”

“No!” he turned on her as fast as lightning, and she recoiled away from him in surprise. “No, don’t do that,” he said, “Promise me you’ll never go near that place.”

“Why should you care?” she asked.

He looked at her, and she could see in his eyes that same haunted looks she had seen when they had been at the burial site that first day. “Just don’t go there,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Promise me.”

She knew she could use this—use it as proof that he _did_ believe her, and get some answers out of him, but the tormented look on his face kept her from saying anything.

“You should go,” he said quietly, nodding towards the door.

She nodded mutely, standing and walking towards it without putting her shoe and stocking back on.

“Promise me, you won’t go there,” he said when she reached the door, and she paused, turning to look at him.

“I promise,” she said quietly, and left, walking with one shoe across the grounds towards the manor, knowing that she would not be able to keep that promise forever.


	6. Chapter 6

It was cool October air that blew past Astrid’s face, playing with her bun, as she rode down the road. She had not ridden a bicycle in many months, and relished the exercise. She was also thankful to be free for a few hours of White Oaks and the beings that inhabited it. The ghost of Hiccup did not show himself to her again—and she did not slip into the past neither. She was tempted to visit the mausoleum, but something about the fear in Eret’s face kept her away, although it also sparked curiosity within her.

She smiled, as she left White Oaks behind and continued down the road. She could have taken the buggy, but she wanted the exercise. Stormfly yipped and raced alongside her, speeding ahead and circling back when she got too far away. As she left White Oaks behind, Astrid felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She would have to do this more often, she told herself, for indeed, it was a relief to leave behind the madness.

She soon reached the Roaksfield’s house, and dismounted her bicycle, leaning it against the porch. She walked up the steps and knocked on the door, and after a moment, a young maid answered, politely curtsying and leading her into the parlor, taking her coat before leaving to fetch Mrs. Roaksfield. Astrid sat, waiting for the old woman to arrive, and when she did, she quickly rose to her feet. “Mrs. Roaksfield,” she said, smiling at her. “Thank you for inviting me for luncheon.”

“Of course, my dear,” the old lady said, grasping Astrid’s arms in an embrace. “I daresay there isn’t much society here in this part of the country, but we do what we can. And please, call me Iris.”

“Of course,” Astrid said, and continued, “I hope you do not mind I brought my dog,” motioning to Stormfly.

“Of course not,” Iris leant down and petted Stormfly on the head. “Good dog,” she said, and then led them into a small informal dining hall, where food and tea was laid out for them.

“You outdid yourself, Iris,” she told the old lady. “This looks absolutely splendid.”

It was, of course, a ridiculous compliment. Astrid was sure Iris had nothing to do with the preparing of the meal.

“Oh, thank you,” Iris said, sitting. As Astrid sat, Iris said, “May I give a prayer?”

“Of course,” Astrid answered.

After Iris said a short prayer that was oddly specifically for the safety of Astrid’s soul, she instructed them to start eating. “I must admit, my dear, I had specific intentions for inviting you over today.”

“I hope nothing too grave,” Astrid said, wondering if it were to be about a potential suitor. Mrs. Roaksfield seemed the matchmaking type.

“I’m afraid it is,” Iris said. “How are you fairing at White Oaks?”

“I am doing well,” Astrid told her. “I am enjoying myself, I suppose—although life in the country is very different than Boston.”

“I see,” Iris said. “There hasn’t been anything… _strange_ , going on in the house and grounds, then?”

“Oh,” Astrid frowned, remembering that Iris had claimed to have seen the ghost of Hiccup and his mother when she was a young woman. “No,” Astrid said, shaking her head, “There hasn’t been anything strange. But I would like to know more about why you think the house is haunted. The groundskeeper Eret avoids the subject.”

“He would,” Iris said, “He has a part to play in it.”

“Oh?” Astrid asked, “And what part would that be?”

“I’m afraid I do not know—but he is an unnatural being of darkness,” Iris said, and Astrid nearly laughed, before realizing that Iris was completely serious. “I am not a young woman, Astrid,” she continued, “But that man has been groundskeeper, and unchanged, in all my years of having lived here.”

“And how is that possible?” Astrid asked her.

“I do not know,” Iris said, her eyes narrowed slightly. “As I said, he is an unnatural being.”

“And you claim you saw the ghost of Hiccup? What was he like?” Astrid continued.

“Strange,” Iris said darkly, “An evil being.”

“Evil?”

“Yes,” Iris said firmly. “It was my friend—a young woman who lived with her family in White Oaks, who saw him first. It started with the paintings,” she whispered, “She told me she could swear his eyes followed her wherever she went. Then he started to appear before her. He seemed… almost obsessed. She thought he was in love with her.”

“In love?” Astrid frowned. So she was not the first woman Hiccup was infatuated with. “What happened then?”

“It started to change,” Iris said. “He became more dangerous—more volatile. Soon, she began to fear for her life. I saw them too—and I knew what she felt. Finally, her family thought her mad—so they took her away, and sold the house. It has happened since. Any young woman who lived in the house for long enough began to be visited by the ghost of the young man.”

Astrid blinked, still frowning. She was not sure why she felt disappointed that she was not unique in Hiccup’s ‘affections’. It did not surprise her, as she did not feel so when it came to the ghost of Hiccup. But that moment spent with Hiccup in the studio, in the past or whatever vision it may have been, was different. It was a moment she had hoped was unique. “Was it only the ghost of Hiccup that visited them?” Astrid asked.

“What do you mean?” Iris asked.

“I mean, did they ever see what Hiccup was like _before_ he died?”

Iris narrowed her eyes, studying her closely. “No,” she said finally. “They only ever saw him as a ghost. An evil being... Are you sure you have not seen him? You have been in the house for nearly a month.”

“I have seen no ghost,” Astrid lied.

The women kept her eyes in slits, still gazing at her with a hard gaze. “It will happen soon enough,” she said. “I would advise you to return to Boston as soon as you can. You do not want whatever they have in store for you.”

“What would that be?” Astrid asked.

“I do not know,” Iris said. “But it is a dark and evil fate that much I _do_ know. It is not love they feel—for they cannot feel love. It is anger—and selfishness. They will use you for their own selfish gain. Be careful, dear,” Iris reached out a hand and grasped Astrid’s tightly. “I do not wish to see an unfortunate fate for you.”

Astrid opened her mouth, but decided to not to say anything. Better if the old woman did not know, she decided. If she knew that Astrid did indeed see the ghost, she might say something to her husband, or Astrid’s uncle, and what would happen then? A fate worse than whatever the Haddocks had in store for her.

They ate their meal, changing the subject to the differences of society in Boston versus the country, and soon Astrid and Stormfly were on their way back to White Oaks, the mood considerably darker in this direction. Astrid wondered what plans the Haddocks _did_ have for her. It could not be so terrible, if Eret did not warn her of them, surely. He may be cryptic, and strange, but he seemed a kind man. He warned her not to go near the mausoleum, after all… if she were in any real danger he would surely warn her and tell her to leave.

Shaking off the feeling of dread that wrapped itself around her the closer she drew to White Oaks, she pushed these troubling thoughts from her mind.

* * *

 

She sat on the porch, having stayed out far longer than her aunt. She was, as best she could, engrossed in her book. It was boring—to say the least. But it was sent to her by her mother, with instructions to correspond on their thoughts.

It was, at _best,_ a rather passive aggressive move. And not at all subtle.

_Mrs. Habb’s Guide to the Modern Woman._

Astrid rolled her eyes, leaning back in the sofa and glaring out across the still bright green lawn. Her mother was never subtle. And if this book truly _reflected_ the modern woman, she might even be interested in reading it—but its guides and rules were agonizingly archaic. She sighed, closing her eyes, and was about to allow herself the pleasure of drifting off to sleep, when she became aware of a slight buzzing—and for a moment thought perhaps there was a bee nearby. But when she opened her eyes, she found, must to her surprise, that there was no bee, but she was, it appeared, in the dreamscape world. Everything but herself and her book were twisting in that artful, shimmering way. Stormfly, who had been asleep by her side, was now gone, and she found herself not sitting on the comfortable sofa, but a hard bench with velvet cushions.

She stood, looking about, curious as to why, after days of no activity from the ghosts or the past, she was allowed to experience it now.

She walked down the steps that led away from the porch, blinking in the bright sunlight. “Hello?” she called out, but there was no answer. It seemed, to her, that there was no one around. Shielding her eyes from the bright light of the sun, so much brighter it seemed than it was before, she peered down the length of the house, and saw a man hunched over near the garden. From behind, he looked rather familiar, and after a moment, she wondered if this was perhaps a relative of Eret. “Hello?” she called out again, walking towards the man, “My name is Astrid, are you the…”

She stopped, staring at the figure as he stood.

There was no mistake. His unchanged frame, his dark hair, and those tattoos on his chin… it was, without a doubt, _Eret_. And not some ancestor of Eret like she had guessed—this could only be Eret himself. She took a step away, her eyes widening, as the man picked up his basket of weeds and walked across the lawn towards the garden house. It was then she noticed a figure walking towards him. Hiccup, she thought dismally to herself, before clearing her mind, reprimanding herself for feeling dismal towards Hiccup— _this_ Hiccup, at least. She followed Eret, and when he and Hiccup met, they spoke quietly, laughing. Astrid watched, transfixed, at how Eret acted and moved. Gone was the cryptic, haunted man who never smiled or acted pleasantly. His back and shoulders were not tense, but relaxed. This man was carefree, enjoying the sun and speaking with his apparent friend. She waited until it seemed that Hiccup noticed her. He suddenly pointed in her direction, and Eret turned, looking directly at her, smiling widely, but after a moment he frowned and returned his gaze to Hiccup. Astrid paused, wondering if Eret perhaps could not see her. She stayed back a ways until Eret went on his way and she watched Hiccup approach her. “You’ve come back,” he said, smiling down at her. “I was wondering where you had disappeared to—gave me quite a fright.”

“I’m sorry for giving you a fright,” she said, “But I’m afraid I don’t have much choice as to when I come and go.”

He frowned, looking over his should for a moment, before looking back at her. “Are you sure you are not some spirit?” he asked. “Eret told me he did not see any person when I pointed in your direction.”

“Perhaps only you can see me—I am from the future, after all,” Astrid said.

Hiccup nodded, and exhaled slightly. “Would you care to walk with me around the grounds?” he offered his arm.

“Only if you don’t mind people noticing you’re talking to nothing,” Astrid said, taking it.

“You are not _nothing,_ miss,” he informed her. He looked over her, frowning slightly.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“It is just… your manner of dress is so different from my time,” he said.

“Ah, yes, well, I suppose it would be. I’m from about a hundred years after you.”

He stopped walking, forcing her to do the same. “A century?” he asked, staring down at her with wide eyes. “You’re pulling my…” he frowned, and said, slowly, “You jest.”

“I am not,” she said, “It is the Twentieth Century.”

He laughed, somewhat unbelievingly. “And we are still a country?” he asked.

“America? Yes, indeed. The greatest country in the world,” she informed him. “I used to live in Boston—but now I live here.”

“Really? Boston still stands?”

“It does, and it shall for quite some time, I should think,” she said.

“Why did you move to the countryside?” he asked her, but she suddenly realized something he had said.

“You said, this is a country,” she said, “Is the war over?”

“Ah,” a shadow passed over his face. “The war is over—America is now its own country.”

“You don’t seem happy about that,” she informed him.

“Well, it was difficult,” he said. He seemed dodgy, as if he was attempting to avoid the subject. “War is a difficult time and brings out the worst in people.”

“The worst?” she frowned. “I would have thought the adversity would bring out the best.”

He shrugged. “Why did you move to the countryside?”

“Well—my aunt, you see. She is unwell, so my uncle bought White Oaks and moved us out here so she can recover, and not with the polluted Boston air.”

Hiccup looked like he had many questions, but he chose, “And you lived with your aunt and uncle in Boston?”

“Oh, heaven’s no,” she said, “I lived with my parents. But I moved to White Oaks to avoid scandal.”

“Scandal?” he seemed almost scandalized himself at the prospect. “What on earth could you have done that would cause scandal?”

“I left a man at the altar,” she said, curious as to what his reaction would be.

“You… did?” he stared at her, open mouthed. “Who was he?”

“A man named Matthew Cartan. He owns quite a few shipping companies. _Very_ wealthy. But I did not care for him, even in the simplest way, so I broke off the engagement just a few days before the wedding. No one has quite forgiven me yet. Least of all my family.”

Hiccup was silent for a moment, before he said, “If it is not too bold for me to say, miss, I am quite glad of this scandal.”

She peered at him, eyebrows raised challengingly.

He grinned sheepishly down at her, and she could not help but grin back. He was handsome, she supposed. Not as classically handsome as Matthew, but he was quite charming in his own way. She heard barking, and for a moment thought perhaps Stormfly had permeated this dream. But she only saw the large black dog running towards them, awkward and slow on three legs.

“Toothless!” Hiccup let go of her arm and crouched down, as the dog licked his face.

“Is this your dog?” she asked him.

The dog looked up at her, and she realized with a jolt that the dog could _see_ her. “Would it be alright if I gave him a pat?” she asked him.

“Go right ahead, if you can,” he said, straightening.

She held out her hand, and the dog, _Toothless,_ came forward, sniffing questioningly. He licked her hand, and she shivered slightly. “Why does he only have three legs?” she asked, scratching him behind the ear.

“That is a long story,” Hiccup said, “And not one I’m particularly proud of.”

“Was it you?” she asked him.

He smiled at her, holding out his arm for her again. “I’ll tell you some other time. For now, I want you to tell me about this book you’re reading.”

“Book? Ah…” she took his arm and said, “My mother sent it to me. It’s all about how the modern American woman should behave. It’s mostly about how to be the perfect wife and mother.”

“You don’t seem that interested in it.”

“Well, it’s rather boring,” she snorted, “And quite obnoxious. Here,” she opened to a dog eared page, “ _A lady should never disagree with her husband, for such a thing would frighten him into thinking his wife was too spirited to be worthy of his attentions.”_

Hiccup snorted as he attempted to keep a lid on his laughter. “You’d think,” he said, once he had composed himself, “That after a century things would have gotten better.”

“I’m afraid things haven’t really,” she told him. “Women still cannot vote.”

“Vote?” he cocked his head, and said, “Yes, you would like to, wouldn’t you.”

“Of course!” she glared up at him. “It is insufferable that we should not be given the same rights as men.”

They had reached the edge of the forest, and after they shared a glance, they walked down the path between the trees without a word. “You are quite astonishing,” he told her, breaking the silence.

“Astonishing?” she asked him.

“A true modern woman,” he said. “You act so different from women from my time. You seem to speak your mind. Is that common?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Astrid replied. “I’m afraid there are still many women who follow the old ways. Or are forced to. If I was still in Boston, I would still be a part of committees and organizations to fight for women’s rights. But, alas, I am stuck here.”

“I, for one, am quite happy,” he told her, “That you are stuck here. I might not have met you, otherwise.”

“Yes,” Astrid said, “Oh!” she stopped walking, and turned to him, “That man you were speaking with, his name wasn’t Eret, was it?”

“Eret? Yes… how did you know?”

“He’s… he’s…he’s the groundskeeper. _Our_ groundskeeper.”

“You mean in a hundred years? That is not even possible,” Hiccup said, eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

“ _Yes,”_ Astrid said, firmly. “I will have to ask him myself. Unless this all really is just a dream—and I am merely imagining him here along with you.”

“It is not dream,” Hiccup told her, walking forward down the path again.

“Well, he seemed very different than I am used to,” she informed him. “In my time, he is so cryptic and dark and moody. He seems so angry all the time.”

“Eret? Well, he has it in him, I suppose,” Hiccup laughed, “But he’s usually pretty cheerful.”

“Well, you tell him to hold onto that. It’s rather a drag to try to talk to him when he doesn’t respond and when he does only with a few grunts,” she resisted a snigger, and went on to say, “He won’t explain anything to me, although he knows what is going on.”

“This all sounds rather strange, but you are here in front of me, so I know that there is a possibility you’re telling the truth,” he said. “I am a man of science, but I’m finding myself becoming a believer in the supernatural.”

“As am I,” she frowned. “It is strange, how easily we’ve accepted these things.”

“The proof is in the pudding,” Hiccup shrugged.

“Or it’s just an elaborate dream,” Astrid laughed.

They had reached a small clearing. “At least, if it is a dream,” Hiccup said, “It is a very, very, pleasant one.”

She was about to turn to chastise him, when she heard barking. But it was not coming from Toothless—and indeed, it was more like Stormfly’s barking than that of the large black dog. “Do you hear that?” she asked, looking out across the clearing, before a large, strong hand grabbed her arm, jerking her out of her reverie. She stumbled slightly, gasping and crying out as the beautiful swirling world was ripped from her conscious, Hiccup and Toothless dissolving into thin air. Terrified and gasping for air, she looked up into the furious eyes of Eret.

“You…” he hissed, “What are you doing here?”

“Here?” she asked, still gasping for air. She looked around, and saw, much to her horror and surprise, that the beautiful green clearing was gone, replaced by dying plants and leaves and an old, large, stone building. “How did I get here?” she asked, staring wide-eyed at the mausoleum.

Eret did not answer, instead he held her firm by the arm, and dragged her down the path away from the dying clearing, moving as if his life depended on it. She looked over her shoulder, at the stone building, and for a moment, could have sworn she saw the door to the mausoleum quiver slightly, as if a wind blew against it from inside.


	7. Chapter 7

“Stop!” Astrid demanded, attempting to pull her arm out of Eret’s grasp as he dragged her down the path. Stormfly followed, locking onto Eret’s boot with her jaw, but to no avail. The man kept moving forward as if he was not being attacked while dragging two living beings. She was not successful until they were well past the tree line. Finally, he let go of her arm, looking at the house with a murderous expression on his face. “What was…” she looked back at the forest, before returning her attention at the tall, tattooed man. “ _What_ did you do?”

He turned to look at her, a furious light in his eyes. “What were you thinking?” he demanded. “Going near that place? I told you to never go there!”

She opened her mouth to protest, but frowned. “I didn’t realize I _had_ gone there,” she told him. “I was just… on a walk with Hiccup. And then you were there and…” her heart was still racing from the act of being torn from the past, or whatever it was.

“With Hiccup?” Eret frowned.

“Why?” Astrid asked, “What did it look like was happening?”

“I saw you walking into the woods,” Eret said. “You were alone. I followed you with Stormfly.”

“Oh,” Astrid frowned. “I was walking with Hiccup and Toothless.”

“ _With_ them?” Eret asked. “Are you sure?”

“Quite,” she said, glaring at him for a moment. “It’s happened before.”

Eret stared at her, before saying, quietly, “Are you quite alright, miss?”

“I’m fine!” she crossed her arms, glaring up at him. “I think it is high time you explained yourself, _sir_. You know something about what is happening to me, and yet you refuse to speak on it. Why do you refuse to allow me near that place? What about some old burial ground is so important that I cannot even go near it?”

“Because—!” he cut himself off, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Because it isn’t safe for you.”

She stared at him. “What are you _talking_ about?” she asked. _“What_ isn’t safe for me? And why and how and I…” her hands balled into fists. She was so furious she hardly knew what to do with herself. She _wanted_ to resort to childhood tactics, when she would resort to physical violence to retaliate against one of her brothers or cousins. But she was a woman—a _grown_ woman. She would hold her ground with dignity. “Explain yourself. I think I have the right to know. Does it have something to do with their plans for me?”

Eret looked at her, startled.

“It does,” she said, taking his expression as confirmation. “What are these plans? What do they entail?”

He was silent, a horrid look passing over his face.

“What did these Haddocks _do_ to garner all this?” she waved her arms around wildly, “They clearly must have done something horrible to… have gotten such a fate.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Eret said, “Right now… after all this time… the details don’t matter.”

“Clearly they do,” Astrid said, crossing her arms again. “You won’t tell me what they did. You won’t tell me why they’re tormenting me. All you will do is go about your gardening and ignore me whenever I try to speak to you!”

“You should return to Boston,” Eret said coolly, “While you still have the chance.”

“The _chance_?” Astrid scowled, gritting her teeth, and trying to choose which side of his face she should punch. Perhaps his large nose… or better yet, knock out some teeth. “So whatever plans they have, they can’t be good, can they?”

They stared at each other for a short while, before she said, “What happened to you? You used to be so different. I saw you—when I was in the past. And Hiccup said—he said you weren’t like how you are now. You were carefree and happy. You seemed to be a friend of his. _What_ happened to you to make you like this?”

He looked both surprised and saddened by this, and said nothing.

While her anger only grew, she began to feel hollow inside. This was accomplishing nothing, she knew. He would not give her any answers. Why, she could not fathom. Perhaps he was in denial—perhaps he was, in his own twisted way, trying to protect her. But she would not tolerate it any longer. She threw up her hands, saying shortly, “Fine. I’m done with this,” and turned and walked with Stormfly back to the house.

* * *

 

Astrid gazed at the dress on display through the large thick glass. It was beautiful, to be sure. Puffy in all the right places—tight just where it needed to be. Although, Astrid thought, it did seem to need a rather tight corset. Astrid squinted her eyes, staring at the dress on its mannequin with disdain. She rather disliked corsets, and the way they forced the female posture to lean forward, jutting the hips back. Not to mention how difficult it was to _breathe_ in one. It was all rather atrocious.

Deciding she would not buy the dress, Astrid turned and took a step—right into someone else.

Parcels fell out of the woman’s hands, scattering over the brick sidewalk.

“I’m so sorry,” Astrid said, bending over to gather the parcels closest to her into her arms. “I did not see you coming and I just—”

“It’s my fault,” the other woman said, straightening. She smiled at Astrid, brushing a stray strand of black hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she held out her hand for the parcels, and Astrid handed them over. They stood, each not saying anything, until the woman said, nodding in the direction of the window display, “It’s rather beautiful—I think it would look rather dashing on you.”

“Oh I…” Astrid looked over at the dress, before smiling at the woman, “I’m not planning on buying it. I’m just perusing.”

“Ah,” the woman glanced at the window, before returning her attention to Astrid. “My name is Heather,” she said, “Heather di Range. I’d offer my hand to shake but they’re both rather busy at the moment,” she lifted the parcels in her hands for emphasis.

“Astrid Hofferson,” Astrid supplied.

“Hofferson?” Heather frowned, and said, seeming curious, “Not the niece of Finn Hofferson, who bought White Oaks?”

“Yes,” Astrid said, “We did, earlier in the fall. Do you live in this area?”

She did not lie to herself that she was rather hopeful. There were hardly any interesting young ladies to entertain in this place.

“No,” Heather shook her head, “My family and I are traveling to Boston—where we’ll be staying for a year.”

“I’m jealous,” Astrid said, “I lived in Boston all my life before moving here.”

“Really? Is it nice there?”

“Very,” Astrid said, “Although a tad smoggy, I’m afraid. That’s the one good thing about moving out here,” she laughed, “The air is so fresh.”

“Well,” Heather said, “I suppose even smogginess would be better than how boring the country is.”

“You could say that again,” Astrid muttered.

“I heard strange things about White Oaks,” Heather said. “I heard that it’s haunted.”

Astrid’s eyes widened slightly, surprised that someone passing through would hear of such a thing. “It’s…” she trailed off. “It’s a strange place… but _haunted_?”

“That’s what everyone says, especially that old Mrs. Rocksfield.”

“Roaksfield,” Astrid corrected. “Well, if you’re so interested, you should come tonight for supper. I’m sure we can supply better food than the old hotel—and you can see for yourself if it is haunted.”

“Really?” Heather grinned, “Well, I shall return and tell my brother.”

“Brother?”

“Yes, he and I are traveling—our father passed away recently, you see,” Heather said, a shadow passing over her face for a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Astrid said softly.

Heather smiled sadly at her, “Well, when should we arrive tonight?”

“Eight o’clock,” Astrid said, waving as Heather walked past and up the street. After a moment she walked to where she had stored her bicycle, and took off towards White Oaks, excited that for the first time since she arrived, something exciting that was _real_ was happening.

* * *

 

To Astrid’s detriment, the evening was not as exciting as she had hoped. Her uncle had seated her next to Heather’s brother, a deplorable man whom Astrid wondered the sanity of most of the night. She had wanted to sit next to Heather, and chat and prepare the woman for Boston society, but as soon as her uncle had discovered that Dagur di Range was unmarried and the successor of a highly successful automobile company, he had insisted she sit with him. The man, thankfully, ignored her, speaking about his business, and instilling in Astrid the notion that he did not _really_ know sound business practices. Nor did he seem to know much about automobiles.

As Dagur launched into a spiel on how he vanquished a business opponent, Astrid looked over and caught Heather’s eye. The woman rolled her eyes, and Astrid stifled a grin. It was not until everyone turned to her that she realized she was supposed to say something. “I’m sorry?” she asked, looking around. “Did someone speak to me?”

“I did,” Dagur said, gaining her attention. “I was wondering if you sparred.”

“I daresay she doesn’t,” her uncle said, huffing slightly. “A woman? Sparring?”

“I don’t,” Astrid said, glaring at her uncle before smiling benignly at Dagur. “But mostly because it is a lost art here in America, and not because I am a woman.”

“No, I suppose not,” Dagur said. “My father loved sparring—he passed that love to me. That’s how he died you know.”

“Really?” Astrid asked, “How so?”

“Old age,” Dagur said, leaning back in his seat, “Old man never did know not to go up against a better opponent.”

The implications were barely hiding just behind his words, and Astrid decided finitely that she did not like this man, however much she enjoyed his sister.

“Well,” Uncle Finn said, breaking the awkward and uncomfortable silence, “Why don’t we take this to the drawing room and have a cup of coffee—and perhaps a game, too.”

“Oh good,” Dagur stood up, following Uncle Finn and Marnie from the room, Heather not far behind them.

Astrid lagged behind, walking into the hall and pausing when a painting caught her eye. “Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, gazing up at Hiccup’s bothered expression. The painting was unmoving, as always. “I just wanted to spend time with Heather, that’s all,” Astrid continued, “I didn’t expect my uncle to sit me next to her deranged brother.”

The Hiccup in the painting continued to stare down at her with a disdainful look.

“Who are you talking to?” A voice said from behind her, and she jumped, turning around to look at Dagur, standing in the doorway to the hall.

“No one,” Astrid said, glancing at the portrait for a moment before returning her gaze to Dagur. “I was just talking to myself.”

“Ah,” Dagur smiled, taking a few steps towards her. “I talk to myself too, at times.”

She was sure that he did. “We should go to the drawing room,” Astrid said after a moment when he continued to walk towards her, “They’ll be wondering where we are.”

“Let them wonder,” Dagur said, stopping just before her.

She glared up at him, wondering how far he’d be willing to go. She could scream, but her uncle was an old man—and Dagur fit and young and the prime of life. Well, she was herself, too. “You’re standing too close to me,” she said quietly.

“I think it’s the perfect distance,” Dagur said, reaching up towards her face, a hungry gleam in his eyes—the type that told her he wanted to _hurt_ her, not seduce.

She took a step back—to gain a better footing, ready to knock out a few teeth, when something creaked, a large marble statue teetering on its stand, before tipping over, hitting Dagur in the back. She managed to get out the way in time as Dagur yelled out in pain, and collapsed under the statue. He lay still, but breathing—as such, Astrid knew he was not crushed by the weight.

“What’s going on?” Uncle Finn and Heather rushed into the hall, and both gasped at what they saw. “What’s going on?” her uncle repeated, rushing forward to inspect the collapsed man.

Heather hung back, looking at Astrid, “Are you alright, Astrid?” she asked her.

“I’m fine,” Astrid said, “The statue—it fell off, I’m not sure how. He was just standing at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Yes, I daresay he was… Telephone for an ambulance, Astrid—get him right over. And get Eret—I’ll need his help to get the blasted thing off of him.”

“Of course,” Astrid hurried from the hall, thankful that Heather did not try to follow her. She reached the phone, picking it up, and instructing the operator to connect her to the small country hospital in town.

She tried to ignore the worried figure of Hiccup’s ghost hovering beside her. He was furious—but not at her, and while she was thankful for this, she wished he would go away. After requesting an ambulance, she turned to look at Hiccup. “Go away, I don’t have time for you,” she instructed him, turning and hurrying out of the house and across the lawn to Eret’s cottage. Hiccup’s shadowy figure followed her out.

She knocked on the door as loud as she could, and Eret appeared, wearing pants and a loose white night shirt.

“What is it?” he asked, frowning.

“Someone has fallen under a statue,” she told him.

Eret’s eyes flittered from her to the ghost of Hiccup beside her.

“My uncle needs you to help lift it off of him,” Astrid continued, “Go, now—so I don’t have to.”

“Fine,” Eret disappeared and reemerged with a coat on. He ran down the lawn and towards the house.

Astrid watched him go, and said to Hiccup, “I’d rather not go back in there right now, how about you and I take a little walk?”

The ghost was silent, as he always was, but he pointed.

“That way?” Astrid asked, squinting. “That’s where the mausoleum is,” she reminded him.

He pointed again, harder this time, looking at her with those glowing blank eyes, intense and focused.

“Eret doesn’t want me go near there,” she told him.

She could feel him starting to get angry again—impatient, perhaps was the better word.

“I’m not going over there—not with you, at least,” Astrid told him.

He shuddered slightly—or more his body quivered and threatened to dissipate, but he held his form, coming up close to her. She glared up at him, and said, quietly, “I’m not going there with you.”

Hiccup quivered again, rising up so he stood well above her, and disappeared.

She stared at the space he had occupied, before sighing, and making her way towards the house. When she arrived, the ambulance had arrived moments before. As they carried Dagur off on a stretcher, Heather grasped her arm, whispering, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Astrid said firmly.

Heather seemed disbelieving, and said, “I’m terribly sorry for my brother. He’s…” she trailed off, and said, “Perhaps when you’re in Boston next, we can have tea and chat.”

“I’d like that,” Astrid said, before Heather left to accompany her brother to the hospital.

“How exciting,” her uncle said, stepping up beside her. “Terrible of course, although Miss di Range assures me it was an accident. I’m afraid it unsettled your aunt terribly. I’ve put her to bed, but… I daresay she’ll need a few days bedrest until her nerves are settled.”

Astrid nodded, turning away and beginning to walk towards her bedroom, where Stormfly was waiting for her. “I’m going to bed now, uncle,” she told him, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

The walk to her bedroom was long and dark, but she was thankful for the darkness, for it hid the faces that watched her wherever she went. She walked into her bedroom, and smiled when she greeted by Stormfly, who jumped up onto her and tried to lick her face. “Hello, girl…” Astrid said, scratching her behind the ear. She lit the lamp, and sat down on her bed, heaving a heavy sigh.

She did not know how she felt about the ghost that haunted her. At times she thought him positively evil—a spirit meant to drive her mad. But… he had clearly been looking out for her, although she did not appreciate it. For what else could that be? That statue was fixed to its stand…. The only way for it to topple over as it did was if it was pushed—and pushed by a great force. The paintings move, in their own way, why should the statues not?

She looked around the room to see if the ghost was there with her, and gazed at the painting. Hiccup looked down at her, his expression saddened. “I’m alright…” she whispered.

She quickly got dressed and climbed into bed, closing her eyes and willing herself to fall asleep.

* * *

 

She was unusually warm, and opened her eyes, wondering why. The answer was quickly clear to her.

“Hiccup…” she whispered, sitting up and staring down at the sleeping form beside her.

Not a ghost, she was happy to realize. If his living glow and colors and breathing form was not enough, the world around her had returned to its shimmering façade.

She reached out and touched his cheek, to make sure it was really him. The real Hiccup—the kind and gentle one.

He winced away from her fingertips, eyes fluttering for a moment in the moonlight, looking at her with bleary eyes. After a moment, his eyes widened as he registered what he was seeing. Or rather, whom.

He propped himself up on his elbows, staring at her open mouthed, and she realized now she was wearing nothing but a sheer white nightgown. But somehow she did not care. For this was not reality. If the man had been dead for a century, surely it did not matter if he saw her while she was indecent?

“Astrid…” he said, his eyes flitting down before looking back up at her face. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my bed,” she said quietly. “I was just wondering what _you_ were doing here.”

He took a breath, and seemed like he was about to speak, but decided to say nothing.

“You saved me tonight,” she said, gaining her a surprised look. “At least, your ghost did. A man was… he was going to hurt me, I think—and while I _could_ have handled the situation myself, and indeed was _going_ to… you saved me.”

Hiccup blinked a bit, and said, with half a smile, “Well, that’s good to know.”

She smiled and leaned forward. “But I have to say, I like you far more than some silly ghost.”

“Silly ghost?” he asked, eyes focused on her lips. “I become a silly ghost?”

“Well, not silly,” she said, halting. “Just a nuisance really.”

He frowned, looking back at her eyes.

“But _you’re_ not,” she said. “I rather enjoy my time with you.”

“Tell me,” he said, eyes flickering between her lips and her eyes, “How much has changed between my time and yours that you find yourself able to be…this close…” she was closing the distance between them, “And not be…”

“I want to see,” she whispered, “If I can.”

He lifted his head forward the last few inches to meet her. Their lips met, and she knew, then, that Hiccup was real—that this was no dream. She felt his hand touch her shoulder, grasping it, before sliding down her arm slightly, and back up to her neck, bringing her closer. She broke off the kiss, staring down at him. He gazed up at her, eyes dark with a desire she had only ever read about, and he suddenly pulled her down closer to him—

She gasped as Hiccup disappeared, and she landed unceremoniously face down on the bed. She sat up, quickly looking around. The world had stopped shifting, and indeed, her things and décor had returned.

She cursed quietly, such as would make her sailor cousin proud, and sat back. “Hiccup?” she whispered, but there was no answer. She sighed, laying down on the bed, knowing that she would not find sleep now.

She touched her lips, trying to hold onto the feeling for as long as she could.

She had only kissed one man before this—Matthew. And even then, it was chaste and sweet and innocent—as times would allow. She did not know why she had been so bold tonight—perhaps it was because Hiccup was a figment of the past—or perhaps because she was still rattled from this evenings events. She sighed again and rolled onto her side, squeezing her eyes shut, unable to decide if she wanted the real Hiccup to return, or if she wanted to be over and done with all this Haddock business.


	8. Chapter 8

“Can we go quickly?” Astrid asked, grasping Marnie’s arm and attempting to hurry them along.

“Steady on, Astrid,” her uncle said, slowing them down again, “What’s the matter with you? I wanted to talk to Adam before we leave and head home for luncheon.”

Astrid sighed, walking out of the church by herself and taking a large breath. They did not often attend the small county church, for Marnie was often taken ill, or too tired to attend, and neither Uncle Finn nor Astrid had much desire to go without her.

“Astrid! Oh, Astrid!”

Astrid stopped, sighing and turning, putting on her best smile as Mrs. Roaksfield quickly walked up to her. “Iris,” she said, smiling. “Did you enjoy the service?”

“Quite,” the older woman replied, before waving her hand quickly, “How are you doing my dear? It’s been some time since your arrival—everything going well? How’s your health?”

“Fine as ever,” Astrid said. “I’m quite spry for my age.”

Iris’s mouth quirked slightly, before she continued, “I am worried after you, my dear. You seem to be holding up fine but… that place is a _terrible_ place. And I am terribly worried something horrible will happen to you.”

“I hardly think this is the appropriate place for such talk,” Astrid said.

“I heard what happened last week,” Iris continued. “With that Mr. di Range.”

“Ah, yes,” Astrid said, stiffening. “A shame—but I’m afraid he’ll live. I heard he and his sister have gone on to Boston.”

“Yes, I know,” Iris frowned. “Strange—that a statue should fall on him. Surely the statues at White Oaks are properly secured.”

“It is strange,” Astrid said, hoping the subject would be dropped, and Uncle Finn and Marnie would arrive soon and they could leave quickly.

“Are you sure you are alright?” Iris pressed. “Is there anything strange happening at the estate?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Astrid said, eying her uncle and aunt as they approached.

“Ah, Mrs. Roaksfield,” Uncle Finn said, “What a pleasure to see you—rapturing sermon, was it not?”

“Yes,” Iris replied. She laid a hand on Marnie’s arm, saying softly “Take care of yourself, my dear.” She looked back at Astrid, “And you—make sure you take care of _your_ self as well.”

“I will,” Astrid said, getting into the carriage. She helped her uncle get Marnie in, and soon they were off towards White Oaks. As they neared the estate, she found the weight that she had not quite grown used to grow on her shoulders again. “It is a beautiful house,” Astrid said, looking at the great roof from over the treetops as they went down the road, trying to ignore the feeling of depression settling on her the closer they got.

“It is, isn’t it?” her uncle replied, staring out the other window, where he could _not_ see the manor.

They breached the trees, and Astrid looked out across the great lawn, now less green than it had been when they had moved, and nearly jumped when her aunt laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Look!” her aunt said, pointing, “Mrs. Haddock.”

“Mrs.…” Astrid followed her aunt’s thin, frail finger, to see, much to her surprise, a shadowy, shimmering figure gliding down the lawn. It was as if it were the ghost of Hiccup, but different. Besides the woman that Astrid recognized, even from this distance, as Valka, was a large, commanding man that could only be Stoick Haddock. Astrid stared, open mouthed, before turning to her aunt, and asking quietly, “How long have you been able to see them, Marnie?”

“Oh—for some time,” Marnie said, still gazing out the window with the sleepy, unclear gaze she had garnered over the last years.

“Astrid,” Uncle Finn chastised, “Don’t encourage your aunt. You know better than that. Leave your aunt alone and let her rest.”

“Yes, Uncle,” she said, sending him an annoyed glance. She looked back to the two ghosts, and found them both watching the carriage. Stoick raised a hand in greeting, and she quickly drew away from the window. She wondered why she was able to see them now—why not before. And for what purpose? She remembered her aunt’s words… that the Haddocks had plans for her. She looked at her aunt, who was starting to drift asleep, and wondered if she dared ask. But decided, with her uncle present, she would have to wait.

As soon as the carriage stopped, Astrid got out, hurrying across the lawn, ignoring the calls of her uncle. She would find Stoick and Valka—and speak to them, if possible. She needed to know more—and her aunt was indisposed for the day. But when she reached where the two had stood, she found them gone. She looked around, breathing heavily from the run, and had to restrain herself from kicking the ground in frustration.

At least now, perhaps, she may find answers. The ghost of Hiccup never seemed to speak to her—nor be inclined to give her _any_ answers. Perhaps his parents would be more inclined.

She trudged back to the house, joining her aunt and uncle for luncheon.

* * *

 

She paused as she passed the stand where the statue had stood. She knew it had been Hiccup who had somehow pushed it over. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she continued on her way, entering the library, Stormfly following quickly.

“Something must be here… _somewhere,”_ she told Stormfly. “There are so many traces of the family—surely not all truly personal artifacts are gone.” She strode to a shelf, gazing at it. She did not want to sift through ancient books, looking for something she may not find. She did not even know what to look for. She was tired—exhausted from sleepless nights and tiresome days. She wanted sleep. Peace. She wanted resolution.

She heard footsteps—and knew, from her time with Hiccup’s ghost, that it was no living creature approaching her. She turned, and gazed at the stilled forms of Stoick and Valka. She was almost afraid—afraid that if she moved or spoke, they would disappear. They seemed less turbulent than Hiccup was—and were watching her with large, empty eyes.

Finally, she felt as though she would scream, and so she said, as calmly as she could manage, “Why are you here?”

They said nothing, and she was not surprised. It did not seem that ghosts _could_ talk.

Valka reached out a hand, and Astrid blinked, not sure what she should do. Should she take the hand? Or run away as fast as possible? Strangely enough, she found herself drawn to both options as if her life depended on it.

Knowing she would never get rest until she found a conclusion to the madness that had overtaken her mind since she moved to White Oaks, she took slow, halting steps towards them, reaching out a shaking hand. She hesitated, closed her eyes, and forced her hand to still. Finally, she opened her eyes, and was both relieved and disappointed that the two ghosts were still hovering before her. She slowly placed her hand in Valka’s. Like with Hiccup, their hands did not seem to touch—her own just hovered nearby Valka’s, touching in theory, but not in reality. The two ghosts turned and led her to the window. She looked out, confused. “What is it?” she asked, “What do you want from me?”

Stoick pointed—and Astrid followed his finger to see him pointing at the woods.

“The woods?” she asked, “Why would you…”

She suddenly recognized where the two were directing her attention.

_The mausoleum,_ she thought to herself, eyes widening.

“Why would—” she looked at Valka, only to find that the woman was no longer there. She looked at the other side, to find that Stoick, too, was gone. She sighed, frustrated. It seemed that all three ghosts were rather keen on getting her to that place.

Eret had been so insistent that she avoid it—almost as if _his_ life depended on it.

She turned and sat against the sill, glaring down at her feet. She could not stand much more of this.

If it were to continue much longer—she would indeed find herself going mad.

* * *

 

_It was strange_ , she thought, as she looked at him, laying on the strange sofa on the back porch, eyes closed, fully relaxed. _With his ghost, she felt a sense of fear—a sense of foreboding. But with him himself, alive, she felt nothing but…_

“Hiccup?” she called out softly.

He sat up suddenly, blinking as his eyes adjusted to being open, and slowly registered her. “Astrid,” he murmured, before grinning. “I was wondering when you’d show up again. Come, sit,” he slid his legs off the sofa, patting the spot next to him.

She walked forward, patting Toothless on the head before sitting next to Hiccup.

“It’s been so long,” she said, “Almost two weeks.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised. “It’s been nearly a month and a half for me.”

“Oh,” she said, frowning. “How strange.”

He nodded his agreement.

She waited for him to speak, until he said, somewhat sheepishly, “I was rather hoping you would show up in my bedroom again. Foolish, I know.”

“No,” she said, “I was rather hoping the same.”

She was aware of him looking at her, and she turned her head to look him in the eye, and found his face much closer to hers than she had expected. Was he going to kiss her? Their faces were a mere breath away from each other, and she found herself drawn to his lips—wanting to feel them against hers again—wanting to feel his body pressed against hers. “Why…” she breathed, “Why did you die?”

“What?” he drew away, looking at her in confusion.

“Why did you die?” she asked, the moment fading as quickly as it had come.

“I’m not dead _yet,”_ Hiccup laughed, “Although there are many times when I should have been.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, feeling slightly irritated. “In the future—in my time, you are a ghost. A rather tortured ghost. I was just… wondering what might have happened to make you so. What sins you may have committed to forbid you from entering heaven.”

Hiccup’s brows furrowed, though not from confusion, but from understanding, and regret.

“What is it?” Astrid leaned forward, reaching out and grasping his hand. “You can tell me, Hiccup.”

“It’s…” Hiccup looked out across the lawn. “If I tell you, you must promise not to tell anyone.”

“Why would I?” she asked. “And how could I? No one from your time can see or hear me—and no one from my time would believe me or care.”

“They may,” Hiccup said.

She tightened her grip on his hand. “Tell me,” she said quietly, but firmly.

He heaved a sigh, and said, “It started in the war. We were… well, it’s important to know that my family are— _were_ Tories.”

“Oh. You mean, you supported Britain?” Astrid asked, frowning.

“Yes,” Hiccup said. “But we… we also supported America.”

Astrid blinked. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Unless you mean…”

Hiccup nodded, pulling his hand away from hers. “We were spies… for both sides.”

She let out a breath she did not realize she had been holding. “You were double agents?” she asked. “For _both_ sides? But how… _why_ …?”

“We didn’t mean to be,” Hiccup said. “At first, we were just spies for Britain, but then… we became sympathetic to America—this was our home, after all.”

“So why not defect—why spy for both sides?” she asked.

“Because…” Hiccup frowned. “It’s hard to explain but… the people we were spying for—were dangerous people. We were constantly in danger. We did our best to deter them—to feed them false information—but that only works so well for so long. Luckily, the war ended, and we won.”

He leaned back in the seat, glancing up at the roof of the porch. “I feel… relieved its over—but I cannot help but feel it _isn’t._ That something terrible is going to happen because of it.”

“Because of what?” she asked.

“Because of…” he paused, closing his eyes slightly, before opening them. “Because we didn’t make a choice. We _had_ no choice—we _couldn’t._ If either side found out about the role we played for the _other_ side, we wouldn’t have lasted long. But I still feel sometimes that we should have… stayed stronger. We should have _made_ a choice, and stuck with it.”

She blinked, took in a breath, and reached out and grasped his hand again. “Well, it’s over now, so I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. The war is over—America won.”

“But you said—something must have happened that made me stuck between Heaven and Hell,” he said. “What if that was what it was?”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” she said assuredly.

“Great,” he muttered, “So something _else_ bad happens.”

“Hiccup,” she said, rolling her eyes. She let go of his hand and reach out, grasping his chin and pulling it towards her. “Don’t worry. I will make sure you find your rest.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You will?”

“Of course,” she said. “You chose me, for some reason. And I _know_ —I will be able to help you.”

He smiled. “I can’t tell if you’re crazy or… or…”

She smiled, leaning forward. He seemed to realize her intentions, for he leaned towards her as well, and pressed his lips against hers. They stayed that way for a moment, before he leaned back. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t make it a habit to kiss girls in my bed—or anywhere—not ones like you anyway.”

She raised an eyebrow, and said, “Neither do I.”

He gave a short laugh, and kissed her again.

When she pulled away, she heard shouting, and looked over to see two nearly identical persons running across the lawn, chased by an older man. “Who are they?” she asked.

“Tuffnut, Ruffnut, and Gobber,” Hiccup said. “Not sure what those two have done _now_ , but I’m sure Gobber has a reason to be running after them. I’m not sure why my parents keep the twins on. They are… well, they have their uses, but they can be rather destructive.”

Astrid chuckled, watching as the three ran out of her vision. She turned back to look at Hiccup, smiling at him when she found him gazing intently at her. “What is it?” she asked him.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head slightly, as if only just registering what she had said.

“No, you’re thinking something,” she insisted.

“You’ll find I do that from time to time,” he informed her, which earned him an annoyed laugh from her.

“Tell me what you’re thinking!” she demanded, poking his shoulder gently. She had attempted to put on an intimidating voice, but laughter snuck into it, losing that effect.

“I was thinking… that you are quite beautiful,” Hiccup said.

She blinked, staring at him for a moment.

“And I was thinking,” his hands were fiddling in his lap, and he seemed almost nervous all of a sudden, “That I wouldn’t mind people thinking me mad. For kissing thin air.”

She could not help the grin that broke her face. “You’re flirting,” she told him.

“Flirting?” he asked.

“It’s…” she trailed off. It would be better not to explain the word and concept, if he did not know. “You’re trying to get me to kiss you again,” she finally said.

He shrugged slightly.

She forced her face into an expression of seriousness. “Very well,” she sighed, “If it’ll make those around you think you are mad, I see I have no choice but to play along.”

“Play along?” he asked, a naughty playfulness to his voice as his hand touched hers, his fingertips brushing up her arm until it reached the puffed sleeve of her dress, where it transitioned to dance across her collarbone. She suddenly found herself hating the fashion of her day, the fact that her dress covered nearly her entire body up to her chin. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. She pushed the warning signs out of her mind at these thoughts. It did not matter, she told herself. Hiccup had been dead a hundred years—she might not even be really here visiting him, there was no harm in indulging in fantasies.

She did not know what she wanted more, for his hand to trail down past her collar bone, or for him to just kiss her and get it over with. It was the painstaking _waiting_ that was killing her. He moved closer to her, his hand sliding behind her neck, gently pushing it forward, forcing her head back.

She closed her eyes as he pressed his lips against the curve of her jaw, lingering long enough to ignite an aching, burning feeling deep within her.

He drew away from her, his hand dropping away as he moved back to his original position.

She opened her eyes, gazing at him with slightly hazy vision. “Why did you stop?” she asked.

He shrugged, and said, “You’re a lady—I did not want to be _too_ bold.”

She set her jaw. She did not _want_ him to stop. “There is no reason for you to be a gentleman or have a sense of propriety,” she said. “There can hardly be any repercussions for acts of a carnal nature in this particular situation.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“How did you learn to do that?” she asked.

“What? Kiss?” he asked, laughing slightly. “I’m a grown man, Astrid—I _have_ had chances to practice. But mostly I was just going with my gut.”

“Continue,” she said, after a moment.

“What?” he looked at her, surprised.

“Please,” she said, not sure if she should reach out for him or not. “I want to know what else you will do—if you listen to your gut.”

He blinked, his cheeks coloring slightly, and his face grew serious. She wondered if he would chastise her—if he would tell her she was being a fool—or a harlot. But instead he moved closer to her again. His hand found its way to her waist. His fingers slipped into the tight banding of her skirt waist, and though they did not go any farther, she felt a thrill of excitement within her. She now wished more than even before that they were not out here in the open, but in their bedroom, where she could be infinitely less covered and more exposed to truly appreciate his touch.

His hand grasped her waist, his fingers working in a slight rhythm against her side, while his other hand touched her arm, before hesitating just before her chest. He seemed to decide against this, and instead placed it behind her neck again, drawing her closer. Again, she closed her eyes, waiting for him to kiss her, wondering _where_ he’d kiss her this time.

She felt her chest contract with confusion as his touch disappeared from her body. She opened her mouth, eyes still closed, to speak, when her body jumped in surprise when she heard the clap of thunder, and could see the flash of lightning through her eyelids. She opened her eyes, the sky overcast and dark and grey, so different than the bright spring afternoon from moments before in the past. She looked up, to see the ghostly form of Hiccup hovering at the end of the sofa she sat at. He was gazing at her intently.

She stared back, unsure of his purpose there. Why did he not let them continue? Why had he drawn her away and taken away the fantasy?

He moved closer to her, his legs disappearing in the sofa as he moved.

“Wai—” she put up her hands, her heart quickening, and he paused. “Don’t come any closer,” she whispered.

He quivered slightly—his form dispelling emotions of irritability. He lifted up his hand, pointing it behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering why he was pointing at the house, before realizing he was pointing towards the woods. Pointing towards the mausoleum.

“I’m not going there,” she told him resolutely, turning to glare at him.

She gasped as his long, icy fingers closed around her throat, not pressing or restricting air, but instead giving her the distinct feeling she was drowning.

In a moment, he disappeared, and she gasped for air, though she did not need to, and clutched at her throat as the sky brightened and the sun returned.

“Ma’am?”

She looked up to see one of the maids approaching. The girl did not seem to have noticed what had just transpired. “Yes, Claire?” she asked, slightly hard of breathing.

“You have a guest,” the maid said, “He’s waiting in the drawing room with your uncle.”

“A guest?” Astrid asked, eyes widening. Who would be visiting her _here_? Everyone she knew was back in Boston, not out here in the country. She rose and walked past Claire into the house, taking her time to get to the drawing room, trying to calm the feelings of panic that had been ignited by Hiccup’s ghost.

“Uncle Finn?” she called as she neared, stepping through the door into the drawing room, “Who…”

She trailed off, gazing at the tall figure before her in shock.

“Hello, Astrid,” the man said, smiling at her, holding his top hat in his hands.

Astrid opened her mouth to speak, but found her voice failed her. After a moment, she managed to _find_ her voice, and said, surprised, “What are you doing here, Matthew?”


	9. Chapter 9

She stared, taken aback. Shocked, truly.

The first thing she noticed, besides the fact that it was _him_ , Matthew Cartan, the man she had left at the altar, was the fact that he seemed nervous. His fingers were playing with the rim of his hat, and he was smiling uncertainly at her. This confounded her, for he rarely displayed notions of being nervous. The man was notorious for being level headed.

“What are you doing here?” she finally demanded.

“Astrid,” her uncle interjected, laughing nervously, “Don’t be crass.”

“No, it’s alright, Mr. Hofferson,” Matthew said. He looked at Astrid, his amber eyes searching hers for something. A sign of affection? Longing, perhaps? “I came to see you, Astrid.”

She continued to stare at him. She had wondered what she would do when she saw him next—for she doubted, if she should ever return to Boston, that she would be able to go her whole life without running into the man. Never did she imagine he would search _her_ out, not after leaving him as she did. “I…I must say, it is entirely unexpected.”

“Yes,” his voice had a touch of an apology to it, “I must apologize for not giving notice—I came rather in a hurry.”

“Is everything alright?” she asked. Much to her chagrin, she found herself worried. _Was_ he alright? What would have possessed him to track her down without notice?

“Yes,” he said, “Everything is fine. I just… I wanted to see you—to see how you were doing.”

She blinked. “Well, as you can clearly see, I am the in the prime of health,” she lied.

He smiled tightly, and she could see he did not believe her. “Was there anything else you came here for?” she asked.

“I…” he was smiling genuinely now, a bashful kind of smile. “I wanted to know if you wished to visit Boston—I brought my aunt with me—she’s resting at the moment. She can be a chaperone for the journey. I thought you might like to visit old friends.”

Her eyes widened slightly. Return to Boston? Even for a short while, and even if it were in the company of Matthew, she could not pass on this opportunity. “Do you really mean that?” she asked.

“Yes,” he smiled at her with those perfect, white teeth, “If you would accept.”

“Yes!” she frowned, glancing at her uncle who was watching them with an obnoxiously pleased expression. “Yes,” she said, quieter, “I would love that, thank you. As long as Stormfly can come.”

Matthew was grinning at her. “Of course. We can leave as soon as you’re ready—and my aunt is rested. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”

“I will start packing straight away,” Astrid said, smiling at him. She took a step forward, and paused, unsure if she dared in her uncle’s presence. Finally she decided she did not dare—she did not want to cause any misunderstandings. She smiled at Matthew again, and turned to head to her bedroom to pack.

Yes, she thought, it would do her good to leave White Oaks for a time.

* * *

 

Astrid peered out the window of the automobile. “It’s wonderful that you brought your car, Matthew,” she said, still gazing at the impending city of Boston. “Uncle Finn refused to bring one. I can’t tell you how boring and _long_ the trip to White Oaks was.”

“I can imagine,” Matthew said, smiling at her.

She peered at him, grinning slightly, before settling into the seat beside Aunt Gerta, a woman whom Astrid was quite thankful she was _not_ related to. Aunt Gerta was, in Astrid’s opinion, a terrible human being. The old woman was currently snoring, and Astrid was thankful, for she had gotten an earful from her of how large a mistake it was that she had passed on marriage to her nephew, to which Matthew profusely apologized for after she had fallen asleep.

“I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to get a break from White Oaks,” Astrid said, petting Stormfly’s head. “I feel as though a monumental weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I can finally breathe again.”

“Surely it cannot be so terrible,” Matthew said.

“It is,” Astrid said, “It’s quite suffocating.”

“Boring?”

“No,” Astrid laughed, “The opposite of boring. Sometimes I feel as if I’m going mad with all that’s going on.”

Matthew seemed confused, but they were entering the city, and though it was dark, Astrid peered outside, smiling as they sped along towards Matthew’s house. “Are you sure you do not wish to stay with your parents?” he asked her.

“My parents gave my room to my little sister,” Astrid said. “They thought I was going to be moving out of the house—so when I did, and not in the manner they wished, they decided to make it permanent.”

“I see,” Matthew said.

“I wish you would tell me what your plans for the week are,” Astrid told him. “You know how much I hate surprises.”

Matthew smiled secretly. “But surprises they shall stay.”

“Fine,” Astrid said, rolling her eyes, “Have your secrets.”

The car came to a stop, and the driver opened the door. “We’re here, sir,” he said.

“Good,” Matthew answered, stepping out of the car. He held a hand out for Astrid, and she took it, letting him lead her out of the car. He then woke up his aunt and helped her out.

“ _You’re_ sleeping on the far end of the hall,” his aunt informed Astrid primly. “ _I_ will be sleeping in a room between the two of you.”

Matthew caught Astrid’s eye, and the two shared a silent snort as the four walked of them into the grand city home.

* * *

 

“Where are we going?” Astrid asked as their car sped along the city road. “Come on now, tell me.”

“You’ll know when we get there,” Matthew said.

“Why are you always so secretive?” Astrid sighed.

When the car pulled to the side of the street, stopping, Astrid did not wait for Matthew or the driver to open the door, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She gazed up at the tall building before her. “What is this place?” she asked, peering at Matthew in confusion.

“Come,” he said, leading her to the door.

Matthew rang the doorbell. An older gentleman appeared, opening the door from within. “Mr. Cartan, please do come inside. A pleasure to see you. I shall inform the Madam that you are here.”

“Thank you,” Matthew said, as Astrid and he entered the building.

“I don’t understand, what is this place?” Astrid asked him, as the man disappeared.

“You’ll see,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes, peering up at him with an annoyed expression. They waited for some time in the foyer, until a woman appeared, standing before them, beautiful and elegant, of about sixty years. “Matthew,” the woman said, holding out her hands. Matthew left Astrid’s side and strode over to the woman, grasping her hands and kissing her cheek. He turned to face Astrid.

“You must be this Astrid I heard so much about,” the woman said, peering at her with keen eyes.

Astrid opened her mouth to speak, but found that words failed her.

Standing before her was none other than the infamous, Mrs. Isabella Gardner.

“I am,” Astrid finally forced out. She glanced at Matthew, wondering what he had told the woman about her.

“Well,” Mrs. Gardner smiled, “She is indeed as beautiful as you claimed, Matt.”

“I never lie about true beauty, as you well know,” Matthew said.

Mrs. Gardner sent him a playful grin, before walking over to Astrid. She embraced her, saying, “A pleasure to finally meet you, darling. I do hope you enjoy your stay in Boston. I mean to make the most of it.”

“You do?” Astrid asked.

“Why yes,” Mrs. Gardner said, gazing at Astrid with slight confusion, before turning to face Matthew, “Didn’t you tell her?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Matthew said.

Mrs. Gardner clicked her tongue in disapproval. “My dear boy, a woman should _always_ be prepared for such a thing.”

“Such a thing?” Astrid asked, glancing from the woman to the man in confusion.

“Matthew asked me to arrange for your portrait to be painted,” Mrs. Gardner told her. “I happily obliged—but I expected you to be knowing of the situation. Though I daresay you look nice enough for the occasion.”

“I thought you could show her the collection first,” Matthew said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Gardner agreed, “He’s not ready anyway. Come,” she linked arms with Astrid, leading her towards another door.

“What is this place?” Astrid asked. “Is it your home?”

“The fourth floor is,” Mrs. Gardner said, “But the lower levels are part of my life commitment. What I hope is my lasting impression on the world.”

Astrid glanced at her, before they left the foyer and entered what appeared to be some kind of courtyard. Astrid gasped. “It’s…” she began, but found that words again failed her. She did not know if there were words in the human language that could properly express what she saw before her—all around her.

“A museum—an _experience,_ I hope,” Mrs. Gardner said.

“That’s one way to put it,” Astrid breathed.

“It was my dream—my husband and I’s dream,” Mrs. Gardner said. “He died not long ago. After his death, I threw myself into building all this. We were great lovers of art, him and me. We collected a great deal over our time together. It will be ready to open to the public soon. Come,” the older woman led Astrid gently forward. “I will show you all my favorites.”

* * *

 

“This way—we shouldn’t keep him waiting,” Mrs. Gardner said, leading Matthew and Astrid up the stairs to the fourth floor.

“Who?” Astrid asked, glancing at Matthew, before muttering, “I do wish you would have told me I was being painted today—I like to be prepared for such a thing. Do I look alright?”

“You could wear a burlap sack and look wonderful,” Matthew informed her, nonplussed.

She felt her cheeks heat up slightly, though whether she was angry he was taking her plight so lightly or whether she was flattered by his compliment, she didn’t know.

Somehow he had become a romantic during their time a part, or perhaps she was just noticing it for the first time. They had gone to dinners, walks in the park, and even picnics at the riverside, and Astrid found that she somehow began enjoying his presence. She wondered why she never did before—or why she did now. She wondered what would be different if she had discovered he was not quite so intolerable when he and she were engaged.

They entered a large room, where Astrid saw the back of a man sitting before an easel with a large blank canvas before him.

“John?” Mrs. Gardner said, “They’re here.”

The man paused, keeping his back to them for a few seconds, before turning on his stool to peer at them.

Astrid cocked her head, slightly confused.

The man gazed at Astrid, scrutinizing her deeply. He seemed stoically reserved, but she realized there was no restraint to him. He finally turned away.

Mrs. Gardner chuckled. “This is Matthew Cartan, who is employing you today, and Astrid Hofferson, your wonderful muse for the week.”

The man made a sound that seemed between a hum and a grunt.

“Astrid, Matthew, may I present the illustrious John Singer Sargent, my dear friend.”

Astrid looked at the man in shock. It was too much meeting two of her idols in one day. If she were a weaker bodied woman, she would feel almost faint.

“Come,” Mrs. Gardner took Astrid by the arm and led her to a chair. “Sit here. Doesn’t she look pretty, John? I daresay she’ll turn out nicely. John is a magnificent painter, as I’m sure you well know. You will look _spectacular.”_

Mr. Sargent glanced at Astrid for a moment, giving her another short once-over, and the expression on his face indicated she did not make a great impression on him. He took out a pad of paper, and a piece of charcoal, and began sketching.

“Matthew,” Mrs. Gardner said, “Come sit with me over here—we must give John room to be creative. We mustn’t interfere with his process.”

Matthew walked over to Mrs. Gardner, where the two sat on a sofa.

“Turn your head a touch to the left— _my_ left,” Sargent instructed, his voice accented in the way of someone who traveled much during childhood.

Astrid quickly found out that the famed painter was not swayed by any physical beauty. She began to suspect that he did not have any such bedside manners. He had no qualms of instructing her to move this way or that—having no indication or worry for her comfort. For the most part he was completely silent, and she quickly realized that was in his nature.

Mrs. Gardner and Matthew were mostly silent as well, although they chatted quietly together in hushed voices Astrid could not quite understand.

Finally, Mr. Sargent began sketching out the underpainting on the canvas, working in silence except when she moved the slightest, in which he would instruct her to stay still.

It seemed to Astrid to be days until, the sky outside darkened, Mr. Sargent stood and said he was finished for the day. He placed a large cloth over the painting, and promptly left the room with no ceremony.

Astrid yawned, stretching slightly, her bones and muscles sore from holding a position for so long.

“How are you feeling?” Matthew asked her.

“Good, I suppose,” Astrid said, “Although I do wish you could have told me I was being painted by _John Singer Sargent._ I would have picked a nicer dress.”

“Your dress is lovely,” he told her. “Well, let us return home and change into evening attire, and then we shall head to dinner?”

“Lovely,” Astrid said, smiling tiredly at him.

It was strange, how standing still for a few hours could exhaust oneself.

“It was lovely meeting you, Astrid,” Mrs. Gardner said, grasping Astrid’s hands. “Truly lovely. I hope you enjoy your stay in Boston. And I will see you tomorrow morning. Edwards will lead you out—I’ve already rung for him.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gardner,” Astrid said, “It was such a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please, call me Isabella,” the woman said, smiling at her.

As her manservant entered the room, and promptly escorted them from the building, Astrid’s mind was reeling with all that had happened. They got in the car and headed towards Matthew’s home, and Astrid turned to look at him. “I cannot believe I have met both _the_ Mrs. Isabella Gardner and _the_ Singer Sargent,” she told him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, sending her a pleased smile.

“Well, I feel as though I should. I have been an admirer of both for as long as I can remember,” Astrid said. “Though I do firmly say if you’re going to have a lady’s painting done, you should give her forewarning.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” he replied, smiling cunningly at her.

She narrowed her eyes, but could not prevent the smile on her lips. She wondered briefly what it was costing him to commission a painter as prestigious as Sargent, but decided she did not truly care. Let him pay whatever he wants for such a painting. What use he will have for it, she did not know and _tried_ not to care. Why would he _want_ a painting of her? For that matter, why did he bring her to Boston?

She decided not to dwell on such a question, for the possible answers only made her uncomfortable. But she knew she was thankful, whatever they were. Leaving White Oaks was the breath of fresh air she desperately needed. It was beyond lovely to not have to worry about ghosts, disappearing into the past, and the bouts of insanity that seemed to overcome her as of late. Here, those seemed like faint dreams, nonexistent and unable to harm her.

She felt free.

She almost wished she did not have to return.

* * *

 

“Are you _really_ happy?” Matthew insisted.

“ _Yes,”_ she laughed, leaning against the tree. “I am, truly, very happy at White Oaks.”

“Somehow I get the feeling you’re _not_ telling the truth,” Matthew said, looking up at her.

They were currently picnicking at the park. She was sitting, leaning against a tree, while he lay on the ground beside her, Stormfly running through the fields.

_Was he always this perceptive_? she thought to herself. It was true there were certain things she enjoyed about White Oaks—but for the most part, she was far happier to be away from the place. She could _breathe_ now. She did not feel tied down to some otherworldly masterplan.

“Are you happy you came with me to Boston?” he asked.

“I am _very_ happy, Matthew,” she said, “It is wonderful to be back in the city again. Thank you.”

She glanced down when his fingers began playing with hers, and she wondered what game he was playing. Under normal pretenses, she would have scolded him, and removed her hand from his, but at the moment, she allowed it.

It was strange, she thought, to be able to feel a person’s touch—not in a dream or vision, but in reality. It was wonderful, really. She wondered briefly why the alternative used to be attractive to her.

She wondered if all those dreams and visions and apparitions were even real—or if they were just the inventions of a woman going mad.

This, sitting here with Matthew, his gentle hands caressing hers, was so comfortable and _real_. She felt conflicted—for she knew she would have to return to White Oaks, and with that return would come the madness again.

She closed her fingers around Matthew’s hand, holding it. He looked up at her, smiling slightly, his amber eyes warm and kind. She looked at him and saw a person, sitting there, before her, tangible and _real_.

She began to realize this was, perhaps, what she truly wanted. Something _real._

* * *

 

“Don’t move,” Sargent instructed, and she winced slightly.

She desperately wanted to move and stretch, to move her legs and walk, but she knew Sargent was on a tight schedule. This was the last day she was to be posing for him—she would be returning to White Oaks tomorrow morning. Sargent would therein finish the painting with the studies he had made.

She watched out of the corner of her eyes as Matthew stood, walking over to the easel, and stood there, watching Sargent work for a moment. She watched, somewhat amused, as the painter lifted his eyes to the heavens. The man was very private, and preferred to work in silence. And above all else, he did not enjoy being watched while he worked. Finally, Matthew stepped away and walked back to his seat next to Mrs. Gardner, who was sitting leisurely, smoking.

“That’s enough for now,” Sargent stood, placing a cloth over the painting. “It will be delivered once finished.”

“Thank you, John,” Mrs. Gardner stood, smiling at her friend. “I’m sure it will be a masterpiece.”

Sargent grunted slightly, before turning and walking out of the room.

Astrid stretched and stood, wishing she could have had time to converse with the painter, but she was almost thankful she did not—for she was afraid what he might say to her. She now knew what people meant when they said it was dangerous to sit for him.

“How are you feeling?” Matthew asked her.

“Wonderful,” Astrid muttered. “Hungry. I feel as though I could eat an entire elephant.”

“Goodness,” Mrs. Gardner laughed.

“Shall we head home and change? We can get an early start on dinner,” Matthew said. “I’ve invited a guest tonight that I believe you will enjoy immensely.”

“Oh?” Astrid asked, intrigued.

She had spent quite some time during her week in Boston visiting friends. Some of it was rather mundane, for most people still did not realize why she had left a marriage with Matthew in the first place. And most people seemed to be under the impression that she and Matthew were otherwise engaged again. She supposed she could not blame them for that assumption. She was visiting Matthew, and staying in his home, chaperone or not, though the fact that she and Matthew were _not_ engaged did make the matter _slightly_ more acceptable.

They arrived at Matthew’s home, changed, and Astrid was just descending down the large staircase when she spotted a young woman standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Heather!” Astrid said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Matthew invited me,” Heather said, embracing Astrid as the two met at the bottom of the stairs.

“And how do you know Matthew?” Astrid asked, as the two women were led to the dining hall.

“We became acquainted once I moved here,” Heather said, “He’s become a good friend of mine over the last few weeks.”

Astrid frowned. Was that a twinge of jealousy she felt? Why did it seem to bother her that Heather and Matthew seemed to be on good terms? She never _loved_ Matthew, and she could have sworn she did not miss his presence in her life. But then again, she never did quite have so much fun with him as she did this last week. She enjoyed their short, recent time together more than she did their entire courtship and engagement.

Dinner was an enjoyable affair. Luckily, Heather’s brother was not invited, and Astrid was pleased to find out that Matthew did not care much for Dagur. Heather apologized profusely many times for her brother’s unseemly behavior during their time at White Oaks.

It was a relief to speak to Heather—for the woman was capable of speaking about more than just society and whose party was the most spectacular and whose dress the finest. Matthew was surprisingly silent during most of the dinner, content to let the women talk their fill without his interference.

After dinner, Astrid led Heather to the door, where a maid was waiting with her coat. “It was so lovely to see you, Heather,” Astrid said.

“It was lovely to see you, too,” Heather replied. “Matthew speaks nothing but the highest praise of you—I liked you enough when we met before, but now I feel as though I inadvertently met a goddess.”

Astrid’s cheeks flushed without her consent. “I’m surprised he said anything nice about me at all,” she said. “I was not exactly conscientious during our courtship. Or thereafter.”

“If you want my opinion,” Heather said, leaning forward and whispering in Astrid’s ear, “I’d say the man is still smitten with you.”

Astrid looked at her in surprise as Heather winked. “I wouldn’t waste that, if I were you,” Heather said, kissing her on the cheek and stepping out the door.

Astrid watched as the servant closed the door after her, and blinked rapidly.

Surely not… surely Matthew was not still… _in love_ with her? Prior to the ending of their relationship, Astrid would have denied that Matthew had any real feelings for her at all. That was part of the reason why she broke off the engagement in the first place—she did not feel as though either party was that invested in the marriage. But she had to admit that he was acting peculiar this past week. Attentive… _romantic._

She smiled slightly, turning and walking towards the stairs to head to bed. It was all rather a lot to take in. She almost wished she had time to process it all—all of it.

Meeting Mrs. Gardner and Sargent. Getting _painted_ by Sargent. Visiting Boston. And _Matthew._

Where was this connection between them when they were engaged?

She found herself wishing she did not have to return to White Oaks quite so soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I (obviously) never personally knew either Mrs. Gardner or Sargent. They died long before I was even born. I took very large creative liberties when writing this chapter, and as I have not dedicated my life to studying their lives, I cannot in any confidence claim that I have written either of them perfectly or without inaccuracies. However, I am a huge appreciator of them, and felt, since this story took place near Boston, I would be remiss if I did not include a favorite historical figure or two into the story. Mrs. Gardner’s museum is one of my favorites in Boston. When I lived in the Boston area, I lived just up the street from it, and would visit frequently. I would highly suggest all of you to visit the next time you are in Boston. It is so breathtaking. Sargent is, without a doubt, my favorite artist. (So naturally I wanted Astrid to be painted by him ;) But that wasn’t the only reason I included this chapter into the story, or more importantly, why I had Astrid being painted. You will see (in the next chapter I believe) what comes from this endeavor ;)


	10. Chapter 10

Astrid laughed as she tried to follow her siblings and cousins through the gardens.

“Wait for me!” she gasped, hiking up the skirt of her dress, running on stubby little legs. It was never _fair,_ that her older siblings never waited for her. It wasn’t _her_ fault she couldn’t keep up with them, or that she was still only three.

It just wasn’t _fair._

“Got you!”

Astrid shrieked when her eldest cousin grabbed her from behind, lifting her into the air and into his arms. She struggled for a moment, before realizing that he was not attempting to tickle her, and was not going to drop her, and sat contentedly in his arms. “Not very nice of them, running off like that,” he told her, walking after the others with her.

“No,” Astrid pouted.

“We’ll catch up,” he said, “And then we’ll have our own fun, shan't we? We’ll have our own revenge.”

“Revenge?” she asked.

“Yes,” her cousin said. “You and I—we’ll show them. They won’t get the better of _us_.”

Astrid grinned, fully displaying her little teeth. “ _Us.”_

They reached the garden house. “Just in there,” her cousin said, placing her on the ground. “Go on, find it. You know what you’re looking for.”

Astrid took a few steps forward, before looking back at her cousin. When he nodded and motioned for her to keep going, she walked the remaining distance to the garden house. She reached up, grasping the handle to the door.

Astrid gasped, blinking in the darkness. Stormfly was beside her, barking loudly. She looked down at her hand, firmly grasping a handle. Not the garden house at her aunt’s summer home, but instead….

She looked around her. She was in the clearing in the woods. She looked back her hand, frozen on the door handle to the mausoleum. Somehow she could not compel herself to remove her hand from it. Her breathing quickened as her heart did. Finally, she grabbed her wrist and tore her hand away from the handle, gasping out.

She took a few hasty steps backwards, tripping and falling. Stormfly licked her face, inspecting her thoroughly. “I…I’m alright, girl,” she breathed. “I just had a dream…I must have…been sleepwalking.”

She took in a few ragged breaths. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn she heard faint wailing in the wind.

“Let’s go, Stormfly,” she said, standing up shakily and walking with the dog back to the manor. She did not know what possessed her to sleepwalk to the mausoleum, but she knew she must have answers soon. She could not stand to be here any longer with the madness every present in the corners of her mind, creeping out and claiming every fragment of her.

A part of her wanted to flee to Boston again.

She was herself there—she felt alive then.

As soon as she had returned, the madness had as well.

She stumbled in the dark, wishing she somehow had a light of some sort, but managed to find her way to her bedroom. She climbed into the bed, curled up, Stormfly on the ground nearby.

She was not even surprised when the world shifted, for she has gotten so used to it. She looked over her shoulder, at Hiccup’s sleeping form beside her. She wondered briefly if she should wake him up—but decided she was in no mood for dreams and apparitions tonight. She had visited Hiccup so much as of late that she found herself wondering if she even still _lived_ in the present. Tonight, she wanted sleep. Tonight, she wanted to pretend all was well.

* * *

 

She knocked on the door and waited, until finally it opened and Eret appeared. He gazed at her, taking in her bedraggled appearance and the deep circles under her eyes, and frowned.

“I want the key,” she said, cutting to the chase.

His expression hardened. “No.”

She took in a deep breath. “I will get that key,” she said. “I need it.”

“No.”

“I don’t know how you got to be the way you did—I don’t know what happened to you to make you this way. I know it must have been something terrible. I saw how you were a hundred years ago. You were different then. I don’t know what will happen if I get that key, but I cannot _stand_ this any longer. I need to be free of it. All of it,” she said, taking in a deep breath.

Eret leaned back, gazing at her. “You can’t open it,” he said.

“I’m not saying I will—I just want the key.”

“A key is useless if never used,” he reminded her.

She set her lips into a firm line. “What will happen if I do open it?”

His eyes clouded with something—fear, perhaps? “Something terrible,” he said, just above a whisper.

She held out her hand. “Give it to me,” she demanded.

His brows furrowed.

“ _Now_ ,” she ordered.

He reached into his shirt, lifting up a chain, attached to which was a large, brass key. He lifted the chain over his head and handed it to her. She held it in her hands, staring down at it.

“Don’t open it,” he begged, and she looked up at him. His eyes were beseeching, desperate. “You won’t survive if you do.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“I just do.”

She closed her hand around the key, giving him a tight smile. “Thank you, Eret. You’ve been most helpful.”

She turned and walked away, and he did nothing to stop her.

* * *

 

“Where did you get that?” her uncle asked as she sat down beside him at breakfast. When he gained no reply from her, he motioned to the key around her neck.

“Eret gave it to me,” she said.

“Eret? The groundskeeper?” her uncle frowned, “What is he giving you old keys for?”

“I asked for it—it’s to the mausoleum in the woods.”

“That old thing?” her uncle opened his newspaper again and buried his face in it. “I was thinking of having it torn down.”

“What?” Astrid looked up at him in horror.

“Yes, well… I feel bad—final resting place of the people who built this place and all that… but I was thinking of building a tennis court there. The ground is level, which I can’t say for anywhere else on these grounds.”

Astrid stared at him. “You can’t be serious,” she said.

She glanced over to her right, to see the ghost of Hiccup hovering there. She stared at him as well, then eyed her uncle as the man looked up from his newspaper. If her uncle saw the ghost in any way, he made no indication of such an observation.

“Come now, Astrid,” he said, “There can’t be anything left of them after all these years. And besides, I bought the place, I have the right to do with it what I want.”

Astrid glanced over at Hiccup, frowning as she watched the ghost study her uncle carefully. She shook her head ever so slightly—a warning for the ghost to behave himself. “I don’t think that is a good idea, Uncle Finn,” she said. “I don’t think it would be respectful.”

“Hogswallop,” her uncle scoffed. “What difference does it make?”

He lifted his cup of coffee to his lips, and Astrid’s eyes widened as she saw bubbles appearing on the surface of the liquid. “Finn!” she shouted out, just her uncle took a large sip.

Her uncle gagged and gasped, dropping the cup onto the table and clutching at his throat as he coughed in a desperate attempt to breathe. Astrid stood quickly, rushing over to him, and then quickly fetched water from the pitcher on the table with food. She brought it to her uncle who downed it.

“What on Earth…” her uncle rasped out. “How did… That coffee was nearly cold… how did it boil?”

Astrid gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, looking up at the ghost of Hiccup on the opposite end of the table. “You!” she said, barely keeping her voice steady. “Look what you did.”

The ghost made no indication that he heard her.

She felt anger she had never experienced before. “How dare you!” she finally hissed.

“Who are you talking to?” her uncle asked, his voice still hoarse. He spoke as if forming words were difficult to do—which Astrid did not doubt in his current condition.

“No one…” Astrid said, turning and heading for the door. She rang for a servant to come, to tend to her uncle, and left, the ghost of Hiccup quickly following her.

After a short ways, she thundered to a stop, rounding on the ghost. “How dare you!” she seethed. “That is my uncle! I will not stand you hurting those I care about! How… you…” she wanted to hurt him—the way he hurt Uncle Finn, but knew she could do little damage to him as he was now. She swallowed, the anger ebbing away and revealing only fear.

Fear that this was what her life was turning into. She was living her life at the whim and fancy of a vengeful ghost. A ghost whom Astrid knew could not care much for her at all.

And she hated every moment of it.

“Don’t hurt my family,” she told him. “If you do I’ll… I’ll never speak to you again. The real you. The you of the past.”

The ghost had no response, stared back at her with blank, glowing eyes.

“I’m serious!” she said. “If you hurt a member of my family again I’ll… I’ll leave White Oaks forever. _And_ I’ll marry Matthew! And you can forget whatever _convoluted_ plan you have for me. You’ll have to find another girl to torture.”

This did elicit a response from him. She felt him grow irritated— _angry._ _Jealous._ But he did not lash out at her, and instead disappeared from her vision.

She looked around, but there was no sight of him. All eyes on the walls were staring at her, mouths moving with silent words. She fingered the key around her neck, her own anger returning.

She wanted to be free of this.

Whatever the cost.

* * *

 

She grasped the key tightly, Stormfly at her heels, as she wandered through the halls. The eyes of the portraits followed her as she went, keeping her company—the unsettling kind. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle, for she could nearly _feel_ icy hands on her skin. Breathing on her neck. The key chain seemed to burn the skin at the base of her neck, and the key itself was burning against the skin of her hand. Was she holding it too tightly? Perhaps. Or perhaps it truly _was_ searing her skin.

She ignored the confused and worried looks of servants as she passed them. She had even ignored her uncle’s worrisome comments on her behavior as of late. It seemed, finally, they were noticing her slow decent. It was a pity, she thought. It was far too late now to do anything about it.

“ _Don’t…”_ she whispered, halting, turning to look at the ghost beside her. “Don’t follow me!”

Hiccup paused, hovering over her.

“Go away,” she said, slightly louder. “I don’t want to see you right now.”

Hiccup extended a hand towards her, but she waved him off. “Go torture someone else,” she said, turning and walking away from him. The ghost did not seem to follow her, but the eyes on the walls did as always.

* * *

 

She stared out the window, gazing with scrutiny at the tree line. Did she dare? She grasped the key around her neck. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she did not. She did not know _what_ or _how_ she felt these days. At times, she felt fine. When she was in the past, she felt happiness—but also sadness. Those two emotions seemed to follow Hiccup—the real Hiccup—and she around like a puppy. A very cruel puppy. She wanted to slip into the past so she could feel his embrace again. But as always, she had no control over when she went to the past or not.

All she knew is she could not stand much more of this. The bouts of madness were growing steadily more evident. Her uncle had expressed concerns, saying he would soon write to her cousin to ask his professional opinion. Astrid found she did not care—if they did lock her away, to be poked and prodded until nothing was left of her mind that made her _her_ , then so be it. It would be a relief compared to what she was experiencing now.

She did not mean that, she knew. If given her way, she would be done with the whole affair. If given the choice, she would give it all up—the bad… and the good.

But she would feel the pang of guilt when she had these thoughts. Was she ready to give Hiccup up? Was she ready to let go of him forever? She supposed it was the only option. If she went along with whatever plan the Haddocks had for her, including Hiccup, there might not be anything left of her to have a relationship with him. And indeed, was what she had with Hiccup even real?

She still was not sure if it was not some vision cooked up by his ghost. To sway her down a certain path. To manipulate her.

She balled her hands into fists, glaring at the tree line, and beyond it, escaping her vision, the mausoleum. She wanted to be finished with it all.

And not just leave for a week or forever and never return—she wanted it _all_ to be finished. So that no one else experienced what she did.

Both the bad… and the good.

* * *

 

“Miss?” Claire asked, knocking on the door from the other side.

Astrid ignored the maid for a moment, putting the finishing touches on her letter to her mother. “Yes?” Astrid called out finally, not looking up from the letter she was writing.

“Mr. Cartan is here to see you, Miss,” Claire answered through the door.

Astrid stood quickly, dashing to the door and opening it, gazing at Claire in shock. “He’s here? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

She did not wait for an answer. She hurried down the hall and towards the stairs. Hiccup’s ghost appeared beside her as she descended. “Don’t follow me,” she informed him, rushing to the drawing room.

She entered, and found her uncle and Matthew waiting. Beside Matthew was a large, covered, flat object.

“Astrid,” Matthew said, smiling at her. “You’ve arrived.”

“I see you just have,” Astrid said, “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to deliver it in person,” Matthew said, motioning to the object he was holding up. It was large, almost as tall as his chest.

“The painting?” she asked, intrigued.

“Yes, it’s finished,” Matthew said. He glanced at Uncle Finn, and leaned the painting against the sofa, and removed the cloth covering it.

Astrid gasped.

The painting before her was astounding. Beautiful, masterful, _sensual._ She had never seen herself depicted in quite such a way.

“It’s stunning, Matthew,” Uncle Finn said.

“Sargent did a spectacular job,” Matthew agreed. He look at Astrid, “Do you like it?”

Astrid opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. “It’s beautiful,” Astrid breathed finally.

“I’ll… leave you two alone. I trust you won’t get into any mischief,” Uncle Finn said with a wink, leaving the room.

“It’s yours,” Matthew said. “I thought about keeping it, to remember you by, but I was rather hoping I would get more chances to see you. As such I believe you should have it.”

She looked at him. “I would like that. Both keeping it, and… seeing you more often.”

Matthew smiled at her. “I’m glad,” he said. “I will be staying for a few hours—I thought you might show me around. I didn’t get a chance to really see the place last time.”

“Of course,” she jumped into action, “I will have the servants find a place for it—I’m sure there is _some_ wall somewhere that isn’t occupied. Come,” she offered her hand to him. He looked at it in surprise, and took it. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the ghost of Hiccup, watching them.

She ignored him, grasping Matthew’s hand, relishing in its reality, and led him out of the room.

* * *

 

“It is lovely here,” Matthew said, sitting beside her against the bench.

“It can be, sometimes,” she agreed.

She glanced over to a different section of the garden, where the shimmering lights beckoned her. She could see the faint outline of Hiccup. Was he waiting for her? Could he see her, here with Matthew? She almost wished she could go see him. To accept the shimmering illusion. But she pushed it away. Hiccup could wait. Life would not.

“Do you really like the painting?”

“I love it,” Astrid said. “Do you?”

“It is a fair likeness,” Matthew said, “Though I cannot say it quite captures the magnitude of your beauty.”

She gave him a look, fighting back a smile. “You’re flirting,” she told him.

“So what if I am?” was his nonplussed reply.

“You’re not supposed to be flirting with me, Matthew,” she said. “Not after what I did.”

“No?” he asked.

“No,” she shook her head.

“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his jacket and drawing out a small velvet case. “I had made for you. I think it will suit you quite nicely.” He offered it to her, and she took it, recognizing it as a jewelry case.

She opened it, and gasped. Inside was an intricate diamond necklace, with small blue stones set in. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Matthew, you’re doing too much.”

“Astrid…” he said, leaning closer to her. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I wanted you to know that… for me, it hasn’t ended.”

“What hasn’t?” she asked.

“Us,” he said quietly. “I know our relationship ended. But what I feel for you is still… very much alive and present.”

She turned to look at him, into his deep, amber eyes. “Matthew…” she said quietly.

“I still love you,” he said. “I know it may be too late for us. I know you may still not share those feelings. But if there’s a chance. If you will give me—give _us_ a chance, you would make me the happiest man on Earth. And I will spend every moment of my life trying to make you the happiest woman.”

His face was drawing close to her, and she found herself leaning towards him.

When their lips touched, she found herself relaxing. This kiss had something no kiss with Hiccup ever could.

Hope. And a future.

* * *

 

She blinked, looking around. She had just returned from a walk in the rain, and now she found herself standing in the middle of the lawn, blinking in the bright sunlight.

“That is an old looking key,” she heard Hiccup muse.

She saw Hiccup standing there, the only constant in this world of shifting and saturated colors. He wore normal riding clothing, and she could hear Toothless running and barking behind him on the lawn. Hiccup was smiling at her. A warm, gentle, caring smile.

“You’re wet,” Hiccup said, shrugging off his jacket and putting it around her shoulders. “Is it raining in the future? Well, of course it must be raining _sometime_ , but is it raining right now? What would possess you to allow yourself to get soaked like this?”

She shivered, though the air in the past was warm. She grabbed his sleeves, pulling him closer. “I’m losing my mind,” she whispered.

Hiccup blinked, peering down at her in confusion. They were standing so close, she might have worried about getting him wet. He hesitantly put his arms around her. “I’m glad no one can see you,” he said, pulling her close into his chest. “The things people would say if they saw me hugging a young lady. Then again, I probably look like I’m losing _my_ mind right now, hugging thin air.”

She shuddered against his chest. “I can’t take it much longer, Hiccup. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing—but I _can’t_ _do it_ any longer.”

“Can’t do what?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered into his shirt. “I wish…”

She let the words die on her tongue.

“You wish what?”

“I wish I… I wish things were different,” she finally said.

“Different how?”

“I wish you were alive when I am alive,” she said. “When I’m with you, it’s like the fog clears. But I know it will just settle again. And I know this is all just a dream. And if it’s not a dream, it’s just cruel fate. Nothing can…”

His arms tightened around her. “I know…” he said quietly. “I’ve been thinking of that too. It’s sad, to fall in love with someone you can never be with. I don’t know why this has happened, and I’m not even sure if I’m happy for it.”

She closed her eyes, letting him hold her. “It’s not fair,” she said. “It’s just… not fair.”

“I know…” Hiccup’s voice broke slightly, and he hugged her closer to him. She looked up at him, wondering how many more times she would be forced to be with him—knowing that at some point, it would all end. It could not go on forever, after all. Whether by the ghosts’ design or her own, it had to stop.

It had to stop somehow. For all their sakes.

He leaned down and gently kissed her, holding her so tight against him she could barely move her arms. Finally, they ended the kiss, and Hiccup opened his mouth to say something, his eyes troubled, but before any sound could escape his lips, he disappeared, and she could feel the rain on her again, his jacket disappearing from her shoulders, and she looked up at the empty air before her. She stood on the grass, alone.

* * *

 

Astrid clasped the necklace at the back of her neck, and admired it in the mirror. It did match her spectacularly. She just hoped there would one day be a proper occasion to wear and display it. For now, she could wear it about the house, though there was no one of substance to admire it. She rose, heading to the informal dining hall. She ate breakfast with her uncle, poured herself a cup of coffee, heading through the halls, humming. Her mind had been clearer since Matthew’s visit. In the days after her visit with Hiccup on that rainy afternoon, she did not see any more the shimmering past, nor any apparitions haunting her. For a moment, she wondered if it were all in her mind.

She entered one of the sitting rooms, smiling into her cup, thinking of her kiss with Matthew. She had kissed him before, when they were engaged, of course. But this was different. Somehow, she _felt_ different about Matthew than she had before. It was all rather nice. She swallowed a sip of coffee, gazing up at her painting.

Her heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, as she dropped her cup to the ground, causing it to break into pieces. She stared up in horror at the painting, as she managed to register that _she was not alone._

In the painting, painted alongside her in the manners and skills of Sargent, was _Hiccup_ , his hand on her waist.

She did not hear herself scream when the diamond necklace around her neck shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued…
> 
> Next chapter is the last! 
> 
> The scene changes in this chapter are supposed to be slightly jarring, to mirror Astrid’s mental state at this point in the story. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

_Hiccup held her close, his face nearing hers slowly and deliberately. She felt safe in his arms, waiting for his lips to touch hers. She wanted this—needed this. When their lips did touch, she felt a thrill of excitement pulse through her. She placed a hand on either side of his face, holding him close to her._

_Under her skin, his own suddenly turned sour and chalky. Surprised, she pulled away from him, and let out a noise of terror and disgust as the face of a half decomposed body gazed back at her. She tried to step away from him, but his icy grip held firm on her arms, keeping her from moving. She struggled, but her body seemed frozen with fear. His face was drawing closer to hers again, not out of love or lust, but out of hunger. She screamed, but no noise came from her mouth._

_Finally, she broke free of him. She ran, but the world seemed to be spinning, and she fell more than she moved forward. The trees twisted and roots grabbed at her feet, tripping her. The sky became the ground, and the ground the sky. Mice were as tall as a house, and elephants ran underneath her feet._

_She heard someone calling her name. Was that Hiccup? No… it couldn’t be… No voice that twisted could belong to that sweet man._

_Something grabbed her from behind, an icy grip not meant to let go—_ Astrid gasped as she sat up in bed, drenched in a cold sweat. She sat there, breathing heavily, trying to regain control of her breathing.

She took inventory of her surroundings, and confirmed that she was indeed in her bed in her room. Stormfly stood on the ground beside her, but besides the dog, she was completely alone.

It was just a dream.

_But such a dream_ , she thought to herself, knowing she would not be able to sleep again. She looked over to the windows, and saw in the moonlight, the painting of Hiccup on the wall. “Don’t look at me!” she cried out angrily, covering her face. Stormfly whined.

Finally, she could stand it no more. She stood, walking to her writing table and grabbed a letter opener. She dragged her chair to the wall, standing on it. She stood, face to face with the painting of Hiccup, gazing directly into his eyes. She gritted her teeth, and slashed his face with the knife.

She glared at the now disfigured painting.

As the shifting shadows and swirling lights slowly took over her vision, and the surroundings of the past took over her own, she found that she was not in her own time. “No… _please…”_ she whispered, grabbing her hair and pulling slightly, in an attempt to pull herself out of the fantasy. She heard shouts outside and stepped down from the chair, going to the window and pulling the curtain away from it. Outside she could see lights—torches.

There were many men walking about—none of whom looked friendly. They were dressed strangely—not in any uniform she could recognize. Her eyebrows furrowed, looking back to the bed, wondering where Hiccup was. He was not there.

She felt a pang of worry. Where was he? Who were these men?

She quickly turned and fled from the room, wishing Stormfly could travel to the past with her—for she did not want to do this alone. But whatever was happening—it could only be important. She found her way out of the house, and out onto the lawn. The men, as she expected, paid her no heed, for they could not see her. They spoke with many accents and languages, most of which sounded English.

_The British?_ she thought to herself. Did the people Hiccup and his family spied for find out about their betrayal?

She would have turned back, hoping to find a way to return to her own time, when she heard someone cry out in pain. Her eyes widened, and she took in a quick breath for she swore she felt pain in her own body from the cry. “ _Hiccup…”_ she whispered. She took off towards the cry, heading towards the center of the encampment. There were not many people here, just guards, and a man walking away from a large post, tied up to which was…

“Hiccup!” she cried out, hurrying over and kneeling beside him.

Hiccup sat against the post, his hands tied above his head. She could hardly see his skin, for it was covered in dirt and sweat and blood. He looked at her, eyes bleary with pain, but he managed to register who she was.

“Astrid…” he coughed, blood dripping from his mouth with the word. “What are you…”

“Who did this to you?” she demanded.

He shook his head, coughing more. “My parents…” he whispered, a desolate look on his face. “They’re…”

“Hiccup—Hiccup!” she touched his face, but when he winced in pain she quickly retracted her hand. “Speak to me, Hiccup—who did this to you? Was it the English?”

Hiccup shook his head slightly, and said, “You need to go…”

“I’m not leaving you,” she fought against the tears in her eyes, “I’m going to help you.” She rose and went to grab the ropes restraining his hands. Her fingers could not grasp the rope, however, and no matter how she tried, she was not able to free him. She knelt beside him again, “Hiccup, it’ll be alright. I’ll save you.”

He shook his head. His consciousness was slipping, she could tell. She looked down to see his shirt, stained red and brown with blood, had many holes. Holes created by various devices of torture. She found herself filled with a rage she had never experienced before. A kind of helplessness. “Please…” she whispered, “It’ll be alright… I swear…”

“Go…” he managed to say, looking past her. She turned her head to see the shadow of a man approach them.

Impossibly tall and broad, the man looked every bit evil. “Hiccup,” she said, looking back at him, “I need you to know—I love you too. And… if—”

He silenced her with a look. It was not one of anger—but of sadness, and, she dared to say it, _love._ He knew. He would always know.

She rose, backing away from both him and the approaching man. She stood, shaking as she fought back against the waves of emotion wracking her body, watching as two men kicked Hiccup in the gut.

The leader paused, just before Hiccup, and turned where he stood slightly, gazing directly at Astrid. A cold sense of fear spread over her, as she looked into his cold, empty eyes. Perhaps because she was not really there—or if she was, only in the spirit plain of existence, but she could tell this man was unholy. There was something dark and evil inside him.

The man turned away from her, removing from his belt what looked like some kind of cork screw. As he positioned it at Hiccup’s forehead, Astrid let out a noise between a gasp and scream. She gasped as the world returned to a more familiar one. She looked around wildly. The torches and men were gone, as was the heat of summer.

As was Hiccup.

Stormfly whined at her feet, gazing up at her with amber eyes. Astrid let out a choked noise, before turning and running off, heading to Eret’s cottage.

“Eret,” she shouted loudly, knocking on the door when she had reached his house, alerting him to her presence.

The door opened, revealing him. He stared at her with a confused expression, taking in her disheveled appearance.

“You must tell me,” she demanded. “I cannot take it any longer.”

He gazed at her with scrutinizing eyes.

“I will go _mad_ if this goes on any longer.”

“Then go,” he said. “Go with that man to Boston. You will be safe if you do. If you never return to White Oaks again, you can live.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t just leave them here. You must tell me what happened to them. I can _help_ them. Then I will be forever free of them.”

Eret set his jaw, and stepped aside. She followed him in. “Please tell me, Eret. I must know. I deserve to know why this is happening to me. Why it happened to _them._ ”

Eret sighed. “It was too late for them,” he said. Then muttered, more to himself, “I tried to burn them, but they would not burn.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Have you ever heard of Drago Bludvist?” Eret asked her.

“No,” she said, frowning.

“You wouldn’t have,” he said. “After it all, even the British denied his association with them. He—and I—are the reasons the Haddocks are still here. Why _I’m_ still here.”

She waited for him to continue.

“They cannot rest,” he continued. “They are forever chained to the earth, and yet… disembodied. They are prisoners of their own sins.”

“What sins?” she asked.

“They did not choose—not until it was too late,” he said.

“Choose what?” she prompted. “Between England and America?”

Eret paused, glancing at her, before nodding. “It was in the war,” Eret said. “They were what was called Tories.”

She waited for him to continue.

“It is not what it _is_ that matters, but what it _meant._ Meant to them, and meant to Drago,” Eret said, putting the flower pot in his hands down on the table.

“Drago did something to them?”

“He was part of the British army,” Eret said. “The Haddocks—well, when the war started, they were on Britain’s side. But they lived here, and people trusted them. And so it did not take much convincing to have them use that trust.”

“And… they became spies?” she asked.

Eret nodded.

She waited again for him to continue. To tell her something she did not know.

“Soon, they could not stand the destruction around them. They began to change their minds. They had made friends here—allies. They decided they could not turn against their new land and people. And so they joined the fight for independence—truly joined.”

“So they defected against the British Empire,” she said. “What then?”

“They began to spy for the Americans,” Eret said. “And… for England. As I said, they could not choose sides. They tried—we all did—but Drago is not one to easily jilt.”

“So they were spying for both England _and_ America?” she asked, annoyed that Eret was taking his time.

Eret nodded. “Spying for the Americans was the only way for them to live here and not be killed,” he said. “Spying for England staved off assassination for defecting to the continental army. Mind you, their hearts were with the Americans.”

“I’m assuming this Drago found out about it,” Astrid said.

Eret nodded. “It was some time after the war, when it happened.”

“What happened?” Astrid pressed.

Eret took in a deep breath. “England denounced Drago’s association with them after the war. He, and his men, were exiled. He did many things during the war, things that even our enemies could not stomach.” Eret sighed, “He was a truly evil man, Astrid. England herself did not care much about the Haddocks after all was said and done. They would never be able to return to England, but… England was willing to forget about them and their crimes against her. But Drago…. He could not forget. Hiccup was tortured—Mr. and Mrs. Haddock, tarred and feathered. Hiccup was killed as well. I… I was spared but… Something snapped. I killed Drago with my own hands. I don’t even remember doing it.”

Astrid watched his passive face, and wondered if all that he was saying was true. But it was all so strange and obscure, and with everything that had happened so far, it could hardly be anything but the truth. “What happened then?” she asked.

“If I hadn’t done anything—none of this may have happened,” Eret said. “But… Drago was… as one would put it, something dark and evil,” Eret paused, gathering his thoughts.

Astrid did not doubt this. Drago seemed to her to be something other worldly in a way. Almost as if he had one foot in death himself.

And he had looked straight at her— _seen_ her, when no one but Hiccup had been able to before.

“By killing him,” Eret continued, “I released something into White Oaks. Something that kept me alive for a hundred years, chained to these grounds. Something that did not allow Hiccup, Valka, and Stoick to pass on.”

“Is Drago still here?” she asked.

Eret did not reply. “When I killed him, his blood and soul seeped into the Earth. Mutilated it. Poisoned it. That is why they… _why Hiccup_ is so different than you remember him in the past. His existence is tied to Drago’s. That is what gives the paintings life. Why the Haddocks are tied to this world, though it has been a century since their death. It is because their fate melded with Drago’s. There is not much left of him now, except his hate. You will not see his ghost roaming the halls or grounds. He is all but gone. But his hatred… his twisted nature… over time it transformed the Haddocks. In a way, they too, went mad.” Eret paused for a moment, before continuing, “There is little records of him now—England put much effort into erasing his existence. He did much that even they, at that time, were ashamed of. I put the Haddocks’ bodies to rest in the mausoleum… but they can never truly be at rest. Only with a sacrifice—something pure and holy. _Someone_ pure and holy, can help them now.”

She took in a deep breath. “Thank you for telling me, Eret,” she said calmly. She turned and headed to the door. She stepped outside into the chilly December air.

She felt his eyes on her for a short while as she walked away, until finally, he closed the door and the windows darkened. When she was sure he could not see her anymore, she changed course and broke into a run, Stormfly at her heels, grasping the key around her neck and heading for the mausoleum.

* * *

 

She inserted the key into the lock with ease. Too much ease, she would have thought if her mind had been working properly. She turned it slowly, hearing its mechanism work and unlatch.

It had to work. It h _a_ d to.

She opened the door, a rank, putrid smell rising up to meet her from within. Inside was dark, but she could see three coffins through the darkness. She looked over her shoulder, at the center of the dead garden surrounding the mausoleum. The three Haddock ghosts were standing there. She stepped aside.

They floated quickly towards the open door of the mausoleum, picking up speed as they did. She could have sworn Hiccup hesitated moments before entering after his parents, turning to look at her for a split second, before entering as well.

There was a moment of calm, before suddenly, everything turn red.

Astrid found it difficult to breathe, before she realized she was no longer breathing at all. Not air, at least. She looked up at the sky, and saw above her, a large red moon. Larger than any moon she had ever seen. Redder than any red.

The wind of the living world stopped. Leaves that were falling from the trees froze in the air. Stormfly stood frozen, mid-bark, on the ground. She felt herself the inclination to stay frozen—to not move.

Time stood still.

After a second, she realized she could move, and looked back inside the mausoleum when she heard a strange, inhuman rattling. The top of the center coffin was moving. The ghosts were nowhere to be seen. Had they entered their bodies? In that case, why were the bodies moving? It should have worked… it should have…

Her attention was brought to a far more pressing matter.

She gasped, forcing her lungs to take in air, and backed away from the door, suddenly realizing a flaw in this plan.

She stumbled backwards, feeling as though her bare feet were sinking into the ground. It seemed the earth itself wanted to keep her still, the dirt grabbing at her skin and holding firm. She finally put distance between herself and the entry way, standing in the center of the decaying garden, staring in horror at the scene unfolding before her.

They came out, slow, for their bodies were partly decomposed and no longer working as living, human bodies should. If she had been able to gather enough air into her lungs, she would have screamed. If she thought the decomposing Hiccup from her nightmare earlier that night that night was hideous, these were far worse. Valka and Stoick were almost mummified, covered in hardened tar and feathers, although parts of their decaying bodies were visible. Hiccup walked as though his body was no longer working properly, with a limp, what little skin he had gone or stretched grotesquely over diseased sinew and organs.

The Haddocks paused, staring at her for a moment. She heard footsteps behind her, and suddenly Eret rushed into the clearing. “Fool!” he cried out, but Hiccup reached her first, grasping her arm with his own rotting, decayed one, dragging her with inhuman strength towards the door to the mausoleum.

Still, she could not muster the energy to scream. Her lungs seemed to be collapsing, unable to draw enough breathe. Eret grabbed at Hiccup’s hand, trying to sever his grip on her.

In that moment, the fog cleared in Astrid’s mind. They never did have good intentions for her, she realized. She _was_ a fool.

“I thought you _loved_ me!” she managed to yell, attempting to pull her arm out of Hiccup’s strong and icy grip.

Hiccup paused, though his face bore no resemblance of hesitation. But, as it were, it could not. There was not much left to it that bore any resemblance to the man she got to know. And yet she could feel _within_ him hesitation. Did he feel guilt for what he was about to do?

“Don’t do it, Astrid,” Eret told her, “It’s not worth it.”

The three stood there, silent for a short while.

“Hiccup,” Astrid said quietly, tears that refused to fall clouding her vision, mostly forming in anger, but also in desolation, “Was this all you wanted of me?”

Hiccup gazed at her with pale, empty eyes. Was she only imagining the sadness coming from within him? The guilt of selfishness? Or was she just projecting what she remembered of his past self onto the monster he clearly turned into? Were those mirages even real? Or illusions cooked up to lure her into a false sense of security? Did she ever even _know_ or _meet_ the real Hiccup?

Astrid’s lips trembled despite her anger, “I don’t want you to hurt anymore,” she said quietly.

“Astrid,” Eret interjected.

Astrid closed her eyes, and the act squeezed the tears out, letting them fall slowly from her eyes. “I’ll—”

“Wait!” a voice called out clearly.

Astrid opened her eyes in shock, turning her head to look behind her.

Standing there, tall and lucid, was Aunt Marnie.

“Marnie!” Astrid said, shocked. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t mind me, girl,” Marnie said, stepping forward. There was no tremor to her walk, no cloud over her face, no shake to her voice.

This was the Marnie Astrid remembered from her childhood, clearheaded and strong willed. Intelligent and strong. Somehow, within the realm of this dream world… the land between the living and the dead, her aunt had regained her sanity. Within this realm, she was her old self.

Marnie stood a short ways from them, breathing in deeply. “I have lived too long,” she said quietly, her eyes closed, “And for much of that time, I have not lived.” She opened her eyes, looking up at the red moon. “This place… it is no place for the living, Astrid.” Her aunt looked at her with kind eyes. “Do not let them take you.”

“But—”

Her aunt silenced her with a look. A calm, loving look that Astrid had all but forgotten her aunt was capable of. The older woman held out a hand, though Astrid could not move to take it. “My time on Earth is no longer worth living. It has run its course. There is no evil that can claim my soul now,” Marnie said. “Live, my heart,” she said, looking Astrid in the eye. She turned to look at Stoick and Valka, offering her hands.

The two walked to her, and Astrid cried out, struggling against Eret and Hiccup as she tried to intercept them, but the two held firm, holding her back. Valka and Stoick surrounded Marnie, and after a shuddering moment, their bodies turned to dust, the wind carrying them away into a forgotten past. Astrid cried out one last time as Marnie fell to the ground, motionless.

“You!” Astrid turned on Hiccup, “You’re a monster!”

This time, she managed to tear her arm away from both Hiccup and Eret.

Hiccup shuddered, his body tremoring for a moment. Something—a shadow or smoke of some sort—fell away from his body, evaporating into the air with a hiss.

She felt what felt like sadness emanating from Hiccup. He reached out a hand for her. With lungs not meant to make noise any longer, the words “I’m sorry,” escaped his lips. And even then, she was not sure if it wasn’t the wind.

In that moment, she felt the bitter pang of regret. She felt _pity._ Perhaps he did love her, in his own way. Perhaps he was just caught up in a cruel time, and cruel punishment. Perhaps he loved her once, and his tortured fate and life twisted him into something she could no longer recognize. She reached out and took his hand, as he, too, turned to dust, and was swept away by a strange, foreign wind. The dust slipped through her fingers, as she choked. She stared at her hand.

She did not have long to mourn. It seemed not moments after Hiccup and his parents were swept away by the wind that suddenly, Eret collapsed beside her, gasping for air.

The price of immortality was great, it seemed, for he began to decompose before her eyes. His skin grew gaunt and yellow, darkening. He seemed to grow frailer as she watched, his hair turning white. He was gasping for air, but she knew in this world there was no such thing as a living breath. She rushed to his side.

“Don’t leave me!” she said, gazing down at him, holding him close to her. His hand reached up to her face, but dropped away before he could touch her.

As he, too, turned to dust, she sat in the darkness, the red moon fading back to its normal white orb, time starting up again as if it had never stopped.

She felt empty—unable to process the events that had just occurred.

In a manner of seconds, everyone was gone, leaving her alone.

She took in a ragged breath, as Stormfly sniffed and licked her face, and she opened her eyes. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, and rose, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

* * *

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer?” Matthew asked as they climbed into his car. “The memorial service won’t be long—I’m sure your uncle will appreciate if you attend.”

“No,” Astrid said, settling into the seat with Stormfly at her feet. “I need to be free of this place. It will feel good to return to Boston.”

Matthew settled down beside her, and gave the order for the chauffer to start the car. “Are you sure?” he asked her.

“I am,” she replied.

“I cannot help but feel as though your decision to take me back has something to do with your aunt’s death,” he said. “I am happy—that you have taken me back—but I feel as though there might be happier circumstances for it.”

She looked at him, then behind them at the small window in the back of the car, as the grounds and manor of White Oaks moved farther and farther away. She looked down at Hiccup’s portfolio at her feet. It was the only thing she wanted to take with her to Boston. The only thing she wanted to remember White Oaks by. Within it was only fond memories of Hiccup—the real Hiccup. Proof _he_ existed. And among those pieces of brilliance and design, was a single drawing. A drawing that warmed her heart and gave her evidence that she truly did know him—the real him. That she meant something to him. That he meant something to her.

Something to hold onto—to remind herself of the love she felt for a man she would never see again in life. To brighten her darkest days, and to give her comfort.

To remember _Hiccup Haddock._ A man whose worth cannot be compared.

“I cannot live in the past,” she said, looking at Matthew and smiling, “Life belongs in the future.”

She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, welcoming his warm embrace.

**THE END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this little story! It has been so much fun reading your reviews and going through this experience with you! It was an enjoyable story to write, and now I’m going to get to work finishing other stories I have started writing :)
> 
> See you soon!


End file.
